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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655116">Odd/Even (or, Even Odds)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca'>Byrcca</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Voyager</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>#takebackthetag, ADVENTURE!, Baby Targs!, CHILLS!, F/M, Ficgust2020, Fictember?, Firefly crossover, Hoban Washburne - Freeform, Miss Kaywinnet Lee Frye, Pre-P/T, SCIENCE!, SEX!, Small Children!, THRILLS!, Writers Month &amp; a half, Writers Month 2020, Writers Write 2020, Zoe Washburne - Freeform, not alone in the ‘verse after all, romance!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:26:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>108,558</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the August 2020 prompts are finally finished. Yay, me! Thanks for sticking with me. I’ve decided to add my aborted Fictober 2020 prompts on the end as I finish them, as a little bonus. They’ll be out of order but I don’t care. No more place savers for me. And no guarantees that I’ll do all of them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Paris/B’Elanna Torres</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>235</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. TATTOO ARTIST/FLOWER SHOP - SPINACH</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.“</p><p>   - Sylvia Plath</p><p> </p><p>In my rush to get this posted and do ANYTHING else today, I forgot to thank the lovely &amp; talented Tortitudette for the help with the prompt and figuring out how to attach the picture. She rocks!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Set shortly after Life Line...</p><p>It had been on his mind for a while now. Longer than a while. Since he’d been stuck in that gravity well with Noss and Tuvok for months with nothing more to think about than Spider Surprise and how much he missed her. How much he loved her. Since she’d insisted on almost dying so she could talk to her mother in the Klingon afterlife. Since she and Harry had crashed the ‘Flyer and were missing without a trace for two weeks. </p><p>Since Max Burke, that piece of shit! </p><p>Since they’d made contact with the Alpha Quadrant. With home. He’d written to his family, as instructed. Kept within the limits of censoring required by Star Fleet. Expected his father’s censure. He’d wrapped the last six years in a pretty box, complete with a fancy bow. But… what did he actually have to show for them? A demotion, and a brilliant girlfriend who apparently liked to cheat death. </p><p>They’d come across a friendly system three days ago, one that was willing and eager to trade with a ship from the other side of the galaxy. The captain had arranged shore leave for the crew. They’d parked <em>Voyager</em> at the space station that orbited the primary planet, and B’Elanna was heading a team focusing on routine repairs, and taking the opportunity of a friendly port to give <em>Voyager</em> a long overdue shakedown. Their anniversary was coming up, only a couple of months away, and he’d been searching the shops and market or the perfect gift. So far, he hadn’t found it. Though his romantic heart led him toward a piece of jewelry (though not that one particular piece of jewelry, no matter the temptation) he realized she’d likely be happier with a bit of alien tech to disassemble and puzzle over than an engagement ring. Her sentimentality ran in a different direction. </p><p>Tom smiled and nodded at people who passed him on the wide sidewalk. It was a bright morning, the glare of the two suns glinting off shop windows and vendors’ carts, warming him. His brain filed away details; he might just add the market square to a holoprogramme some time. There were food shops, ones selling delicate glassware, others offering clothing. Nothing that seemed <em>right</em>. But he had time. He could always replicate a gift. If push came to shove, B’Elanna was a sucker for flowers and a good meal. Cliche, but he wasn’t going to mess with what worked. </p><p>A bakery tempted him--B’Elanna had a sweet tooth--but after her miserable experience with a salad a few years ago, he wasn’t about to purchase something for her to eat without the Doctor’s approval. A clutch of natives exited a shop and momentarily blocked his way. They flowed past him, and Tom noticed a riot of colour up ahead, as if his desperate heart conjured it: a flower shop. The window was hazy with condensation, but bright blooms pressed against the glass in a shocking contrast to the muted hues behind them. What the hell, he thought, might as well go with tried and true. </p><p>He pushed through the doorway and was immediately hit by the rich scent of the warm, humid air inside the shop. Spicy and sweet and floral all in one, it reminded him of the scent of B’Elanna’s hair after a shower. He had to smile. Perfect. A long counter ran the length of one wall, covered in potted plants. Their leaves ran the gamut from bright yellow to blue to purple. Some were in bloom, others not. Some were bushy to the point of looking like a conglomerated mess of ‘greenery’, others grew in long vines that looped and wrapped around supports. One looked like a large pot of orange spinach leaves. He was momentarily stymied. Would B’Elanna like a live plant? Something permanent that would grow and mature like their relationship had over the last six years. Would she remember to water it? She sometimes got so caught up in repairs or projects that she worked through a second shift, only going back to her quarters to stumble into bed for a few hours before she got up and did it all again. On second thought, maybe getting her a gift that was dependent on her for it’s life wasn’t a good idea; she wasn’t really the nurturing type, unless you were talking about her warp core. </p><p>He turned toward the back of the shop and saw buckets of blooms in every colour of the rainbow, and walked closer to study them. One was a soft creamy-peach, it’s petals reminiscent of roses, but the colour wasn’t ‘B’Elanna’. Another, in a bright red that reminded him of her favourite colour of lipstick, had long, thin petals that curled and twisted around a deep purple stamen. It was a bit too aggressive, and not in a funtime-Saturday-night way. Some looked like feathers, others were furry. He’d swear one type of flower had teeth. Tom frowned. </p><p>“May the twin suns never darken on you.” </p><p>Tom started, and turned. “And on you,” he answered. They’d been briefed on local custom, and Tom tilted his head in greeting. </p><p>“Welcome to Klaxis System, stranger,” the shopkeeper said. “They are not for eating.” </p><p>Tom resisted the urge to grin. “I didn’t think they were. My homeworld has flowers and plants for decoration, too.” He gestured toward the wall of potted foliage. </p><p>The shopkeeper inclined their chin, their head bobbing on their long, rather spindly neckstalk. Their skin was slightly greenish, and they were dressed in a layered robe made of brightly patterned fabric that would give Neelix’ wardrobe a run for its money. </p><p>“I am present to assist you,” the shopkeeper said. </p><p>Tom smiled. “I want to purchase a bouquet for my...” he stumbled over the word for a moment, and finally landed on “girlfriend.” It didn’t seem like enough. Though, some days, it seemed like he should insert a tiny pause between girl and friend. Woman and friend. <em>Womanfriend</em> was ridiculous. </p><p>This elicited a frown from the shopkeeper, and Tom clarified. “My companion.” He placed his palm over his heart. “My life partner.” That wasn’t right, either. </p><p>The shopkeeper bobbed an affirmative, and the universal translator sputtered for a moment. “Your... mate. The one who brings eternal light to your existence.” </p><p>“Yeah.” Tom’s gut clenched. </p><p>“Describe their <em>klaa</em>,” they ordered.</p><p>Claw? Tom frowned. She’d scratched him a few times, in heated moments when they got a little carried away, but she didn’t have claws. The shopkeeper repeated the word, and the translator stuttered over heart/mind/light, and Tom nodded in understanding. He thought for a moment. “She’s… brilliant. Intelligent, but she also has an energy, a <em>light</em>. She can be practical, but she’s also sentimental, warm. She guards her emotions, and she doesn’t let people in easily.” A soft, dreamy smile had lit his face with warmth. “And she can be sarcastic. She has high expectations of her subordinates, but she can be forgiving, too.”</p><p>The shopkeeper tottered out from behind the counter, their three legs giving them an uneven, jolting gate. They selected an assortment of blooms, their four arms blurring as they plucked them from the water pots, seemingly at random. The result was a large bouquet in reds and browns and indigo with one of those peach ‘roses’ thrown in for contrast. It was stunning and perfect, right down to the feathery fern-foliage with tiny thorns on the stem. As the shopkeeper wrapped the bouquet in paper, Tom reached into his pocket for the chip card he’d been given to pay for any purchases he made planet-side. He scanned the wall behind the shopkeeper, and the art displayed there. There were symbols, and pictograms that were likely words, and drawings that were obviously representative of native plants and animals, objects and designs. His gaze travelled to a doorway partially obstructed by a curtain, and a room beyond. He’d assumed it was some sort of store room, but now he wondered. </p><p>He gestured toward the drawings. “Are those for purchase?” His quarters were a little bland and it might be nice to have some non Federation art on the walls. </p><p>The shopkeeper wobble-bobbed its head and peered at Tom, scanning him from head to legs. “Your epidermis is blank?” It asked. </p><p>Blank? Epi...skin! “Are they tattoo designs?” Tom asked. Ancient Earth sailors and soldiers often covered themselves in tattoos: birds of prey, anchors, sailing ships. A compass rose, intended to keep a sailor from getting lost. A swallow for every five thousand nautical miles a sailor travelled at sea. He’d have to cover his body in a whole flight of swallows. He wondered what B’Elanna would think of a heart with a dagger through it. Or a d’ tahg. </p><p>An idea bubbled in his brain, something that might be the perfect ‘gift’ for B’Elanna, after all. Something that would express how deeply he felt for her. A rather showy show of faith. “Do you have something I could use to…” He posed his fingers as if he was holding a stylus, and mimicked drawing on the palm of his hand. The proprietor bobbed their head and pulled a sheet of wrapping paper from the spindle, then reached below the counter and placed a pencil on top of it. Tom picked it up and pulled the paper closer, and smiled. </p><p>*****</p><p>B’Elanna tapped her code into the lock panel outside her quarters and stifled a yawn. It had been a long day for her assessing <em>Voyager’s</em> systems and liaising with the repair teams that worked Klaxis’ drydock. She wasn’t a huge fan of the idea of using their technology to patch <em>Voyager</em> but she didn’t have much choice. After six years without a proper overhaul in a Federation port, they were used to holding her together with ‘chewing gum and bailing wire’, as Tom would say. She’d make do. </p><p>She unfastened her jacket as she walked through the doors and thought about comming him. She wondered if he was asleep. It wasn’t that late, just past twenty-two hundred, and Tom could be a night owl, especially if he had time off. But he’d been on the planet today while she’d been busy with the refit, and maybe all that fresh air and sunshine--the carrot he’d dangled in front of her in his attempt to get her to play hookey and join him for lunch on the planet’s surface--had knocked him out. </p><p>She raised a hand to her combadge and froze when her eyes landed on her dining table. A large, colourful bouquet of flowers in ‘fleet-issue vase sat in the centre of the table, its generous foliage taking up half of the surface area. It looked like her table had exploded in flowers. She smiled. </p><p>When they’d first begun dating, they’d made sure to keep a line drawn between his quarters and hers. Even after they’d started spending the whole night together, each had waited for an invitation. A few times, she’d got off shift and come back to her quarters to find Tom patiently waiting for her in the corridor, shoulder leaned against the bulkhead, reading a padd and looking for all the world like he’d just been wandering the ship’s corridors and paused for a moment. </p><p>She’d had no idea that Tom had cracked her door code until after that ill-fated away mission with Harry where their shuttle had crashed and she’d been roped into a career on the stage. It had taken two weeks for <em>Voyager</em> to find them, and after she’d beamed back aboard and been cleared by the Doctor, she’d returned to her quarters to find that Tom, along with stale pizza crusts and half the contents of his closet, had taken up residence. </p><p>He’d taken that liberty only a couple more times: he’d surprised her the next night with a beautifully laid table complete with candles and wine and a delicious replicated meal, and two weeks ago she’d come back to find him in her sonic shower: <em>mine doesn’t work</em>. When she’d questioned him as to why he hadn’t logged a repair request--or simply fixed it himself--he’d said that using hers had seemed more expedient. The sight of him, naked and rosey from the warm, swirling air, had certainly ‘expediated’ her right into the shower with him. </p><p>She gazed at the flowers and smiled. It was just like him to surprise her with an extravagant gesture; he could be really sweet, sometimes. When he wasn’t caught up in some idiotic hobby and ignoring the fact that she existed. She glanced around. Her bed was empty, and he wasn’t on the couch. She cocked an ear toward her bathroom but heard nothing. The door was open and the light off, but she doubted he was planning to jump out and surprise her. She tapped her combadge. “Torres to Paris.” </p><p>“<em>Paris here. Hi.</em>” </p><p>His voice was warm, and she could hear the smile that he was likely wearing. “Hi. They’re beautiful, thank you.” </p><p>A puzzled note tinged his tone. “<em>What are?</em>” </p><p>She grinned. “Why don’t you come over and find out?”</p><p>Her door chimed a moment later, and she laughed. Tom was standing there with a big grin on his face. He was dressed in civvies, his blue jeans and a gaudily patterned shirt worn open over a grey ‘fleet tee shirt. “Oh, those,” he said cooly, nodding toward the flowers. </p><p>“Yeah, those.” She wound her arms around his neck and he lowered his head to kiss her. </p><p>“You like them?” he asked.</p><p>“Want me to show you how much?” She tightened her arms on his shoulders and pressed her breasts to his chest, but Tom hissed and backed away, his grip on her waist loosening. She frowned. “What’s wrong?” </p><p>“Nothing. I’m just…” His mouth quirked. “It’s a surprise.” </p><p>Her eyebrow lifted. “Another one?” </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>She eyed his chest, searching for a tell-tale outline of a package. “Are you hiding it under your uniform?” She spread her fingers over his pecs and her mouth lifted in a grin. She wondered if Klaxis Prime had their own version of chocolate and if Tom had managed to smuggle some past Neelix. </p><p>Tom flinched this time and stepped away from her. She raised an eyebrow, concern creasing her features. “What is it?” </p><p>He smiled. “It’s nothing. Well, it’s <em>something</em>, obviously, but it’s fine. It will be, in a few days.” </p><p>She frowned. “You didn’t eat something funny down there, did you?” she asked, wondering if he’d accidentally ingested something that had mind-altering properties to humans. </p><p>“Nooo, I did something. For you. For me, too, but mostly to…” </p><p>He flapped a hand in the air expressively. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite express what was on his mind. “What are you talking about?” </p><p>Tom sighed and shrugged out of his shirt. He tossed it onto her sofa, then reached for the hem of his tee shirt and carefully eased it up his chest and over his head, exposing a bandage on the upper left side of his chest. B’Elanna gasped and raised a hand to tentatively trace the edge of the bandage. “My god, Tom, are you alright? What happened? Are you hurt? What is this; why didn’t the Doctor heal you?”</p><p>He wrapped her hand with his and pulled it away from his chest. “I’m fine. And I didn’t show the Doc because it’ll heal in a couple of days. I was going to wait to show you, but…” He shrugged and smiled again.</p><p>“A couple of days?” She frowned. “Why are you smiling?” </p><p>He squeezed her shoulder, then dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her closer again. “Klingon custom allows for body modifications, right?” </p><p>“Body modifications? Tom, did you get a piercing?” The idea that he’d had a ring or a metal bar implanted in his skin was oddly erotic. </p><p>“Nooo…” He let go of her again and tugged gently on the corner of the bandage. His skin stretched until the adhesive let go, then the fabric started to come away from his chest. “Pink, but not inflamed. That’s a good sign,” he said. He carefully loosened the bandage around the edges, apparently anticipating a pain that didn't come. </p><p>B’Elanna drew back, confused. “Why did you shave your chest?” She liked his chest hair; there were days--nights--when she considered it her own. </p><p>“They plucked it, actually,” he replied. He continued to peel back the bandage until it had released his skin, then lifted it away and tossed it onto her coffee table. </p><p>She stared at his chest, dumbfounded. “Why… Tom why would you…?” She glanced up at him. The smile was slipping from his mouth, and he looked suddenly unsure. </p><p>“Because you’re my heart.” </p><p>Her breath left her at that. He was staring at her, obviously waiting for her to say something or do something. Her fingers hovered over his tattoo. It entered her mind that he’d spelled her name wrong though, technically, it was Federation standard, and was the spelling on her transcripts from her time in the Academy. It was probably the spelling in her file at Starfleet Command. </p><p>He hadn’t just tattooed her name on his chest, he’d gone full Tom Paris, King of the Absurdly Grand Gesture. He’d had a stylized red heart (shaded so it looked three-dimensional) drawn on his upper pec, just below the neckline of his shirt. It was backed by two roses, red and blue, and cut through with a curling, flesh-coloured ribbon with her name on it in capital letters: B’ELANNA. She didn’t know whether to be touched or appalled. Appalled was winning. </p><p>She recognized that the pounding sound she was hearing was her pulse beat hammering in her ears. </p><p>“But,” she started. But what? It was impulsive? It was foolhardy? It was too personal. Too permanent? It wasn’t, really; the Doctor could remove it easily. Tom could, with a dermal regenerator. She could. But… did she want to? She was starting to warm to the idea, that he’d branded himself with her name, marked himself as hers, literally. A little curl of desire unfolded in her belly and tingled in her groin. Her breath stuttered. What had he said: Klingon customs? </p><p>She stepped away from him and put a little much-needed distance between them. She felt like she had to tread very carefully. “What did you mean when you said that, about Klingon customs?” He’d always encouraged her to explore her Klingon half, and though she’d assumed he’d pushed that workout programme at her for her sake, she’d quickly come to realize that he’d probably enjoyed using a bat’leth more than she did. </p><p>“Well, I know that it’s customary for Klingons to mark their mate.” His tone was measured, his words coming slowly and clearly, as if he was afraid that at any moment she’d object. “And I know that mating bites are usually displayed where other people can see them.” </p><p>A lump was forming in her throat that had less to do with sentimentality and more to do with panic. It took everything she had to stay rooted to the spot and let him speak.</p><p>“You haven’t brought it up since, you know, and I didn’t know if you’d want me to ask,” he continued. </p><p><em>It</em>. He was referring, of course, to the bite she’d given him on Sikari. The <em>mating</em> bite she’d placed high on his jaw, flaming red and angry against his pale skin. She’d actually bitten him a few times since, on his shoulders, his chest, his upper arms, when they’d been caught up in each other and the all-consuming passion they could sometimes create together. He’d done the same, after they’d run across the <em>Equinox</em>, after Max. But he’d never suggested, never even hinted… </p><p>“It seemed like a good compromise. I can cover it up so no one sees it. I mean, it’s not like anyone has been running the resort programme lately.” He tried a smile. “But we’ll both know it’s there.”</p><p>She shook her head. “But why a tattoo?” Permanent! her brain screamed, Irrevocable! Not really, her heart replied, all he needs is a few passes with a dermal regenerator. </p><p>“It’s an old sailor’s tradition, to tattoo the name of your sweetheart on your arm or your chest before you ship out, so even when you’re apart, they’re close. And we’ve been apart lately.” His mouth quirked into a frown. “When I noticed that the flower shop had a tattoo parlor in the back, it was an easy decision.” </p><p>He said it as if it was a logical leap from buying a bouquet of roses to having ones tattooed on his chest. “I was reading up on Klingon culture,” he began. His hand took hers and he began to play with her fingers. “And I know that scars won in battle are considered attractive, a sign of courage, I guess, but whenever I get hurt the Doc always fixes me up.” He shrugged. “No scars.”</p><p>She shook her head, not quite comprehending. “Did you have to best the tattoo… guy in battle before he’d do that?” She gestured to his chest.  </p><p>Tom smiled. “No. But it was a bit of a fight to make them understand what I wanted. And it did hurt.” His smile slipped again. “You don’t like it? Do you want me to have the Doc remove it?” He looked disappointed. </p><p>She shook her head. “I don’t know.” In truth, her body was rising with his words, her blood warming and rushing through her veins, heart hammering in her chest. He’d marked himself as hers. Hers! “Does it still hurt?” she asked. She traced the B in her name, Tom flinched. </p><p>“A little.”</p><p>Her eyebrow lifted. “Do you need an analgesic?” </p><p>“I don’t think so. I’m pretty tough, you know.” </p><p>She snorted. “Want me to kiss it better?” Since becoming <em>Voyager’s</em> official nurse, Tom had offered to ‘kiss it better’ countless times when she’d injured herself in minor engineering or holodeck mishaps.</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” he agreed.</p><p>She placed a soft, tentative kiss on the blue rose, then peered into Tom’s face. His eyes were scrunched closed, and his nose was all wrinkled up. He’d have made a cute Bajoran, she decided. “Maybe we should put the bandage back on it until it’s healed.”</p><p>“Probably.” He grinned. “You know, you’re going to have to be really gentle with me for the next few days.”</p><p>“Will I?” Her voice had become throaty, and she felt heat wash over her. </p><p>“Um hmm.” He tugged her close. “You might even have to help me dress, undress, shower…” </p><p>“Shower? Are you feeling particularly <em>dirty</em>, Ensign?” </p><p>His eyes flamed. She knew for a fact that it turned him on when she pulled rank on him. And she--and her wandering hand--knew that it turned him on now. He concentrated on her cheek then raised a hand and rubbed it with the pad of his thumb, and she remembered that she’d been splashed with lubricant while she’d been examining some spare parts on the space dock. </p><p>“Looks like you might need a shower too. Ma’am.” </p><p>His voice dipped into a low drawl, and the breath stuttered in her chest. The bright bandage was a glaring reminder of his love for her, of his devotion. For now, at least, he was hers. Wholly and fully <em>hers</em>. </p><p>She stripped off her uniform jacket and dropped it to the floor then, in a practiced move, popped the metal button on his jeans. Tom grinned and helped her pull her turtleneck off and tossed it onto her couch. He followed her into the bathroom.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. QUARANTINE- SPELL CHECK</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: This one is a coda to my story Virulent Desire. A huge thank you to Lady Arreya for the idea. An extra special thank you goes out to Autocorrect for all the help. So much help. As much help as a five year old. Or a cat.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tom battled his way to consciousness with a groan. His face felt heavy. His eyes felt fuzzy. His brain was dry. He was sure his tongue was throbbing. It stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Uuuggghhhh,” he moaned. He blinked but the room refused to swim into focus. “B’lannn…” He <em>prupped</em> a cough and swallowed a ball of saliva. This time, he managed to croak her name. </p>
<p>“B’lahda?” </p>
<p>“Tom?” </p>
<p>Her voice came from his living area, and he flopped his head to the left as his ears picked up a rustle of movement. She appeared in his bedroom doorway, PADD in hand, a tentative smile on her face. </p>
<p>“Hi. How are you feeling?” </p>
<p>“Ugh,” he answered. “Gib id to be straid, I’b dyig, ar’d I?” </p>
<p>Her smile warmed and she crossed to the bedside table and picked up a glass of water. She sat on the mattress, her thigh pressed to his ribs, and reached across his chest to cup the back of his head and help to lift him slightly while he took a sip. He swallowed, and the water tried to go up his nasal passages into his sinuses—which felt the size of a class 6 shuttlecraft—instead of down his throat to his stomach. </p>
<p>“Better?” she asked, lowering his head back onto the mound of pillows. He groaned in reply, and she picked up a hypospray, also from the bedside table. “The Doctor said that you could have another dose if you felt bad enough when you woke up.” She raised an eyebrow. </p>
<p>“Pleads,” he said. </p>
<p>Her eyebrow lifted, then she nodded and pressed the hypo to his neck. It felt like an ice cube. The meds <em>hissed</em> into his skin and made their way into his circulatory system, and he felt better almost instantly. The pain in his muscles receded, and his skin stopped hurting. His nose still felt stuffy, and the back of his throat was swollen and full. Thinking about it made him sneeze. B’Elanna jerked away, one hand in front of her face to deflect the sudden gust of moist, plague-riddled air. “Sordy,” he said. He flopped his head back onto the pillow with a groan. “Why id my node plubed ub?” he asked. </p>
<p>B’Elanna’s luscious mouth twitched at one corner. “According to the Doctor, when the virus mutated it attacked your respiratory system. If you develop a ‘productive cough’ I need to let him know.” </p>
<p>Tom nodded, then stopped that as a wave of vertigo made his head spin. “Why did’id da hybo helb by node?” </p>
<p>Those succulent lips quirked, then thinned as she pressed them together and tapped them with a finger. Her eyes crinkled and he wondered if she was about to sneeze, too. “The Doctor said that mucus contains antibodies and bacteria-killing enzymes that help fight infection.” She shrugged one shoulder gracefully.</p>
<p>“Ugh,” he acknowledged. His eyes narrowed as he frowned. “You gabe be da Kligog pogx,” he accused.</p>
<p>“I guess I did,” she agreed. </p>
<p>She leaned down and kissed him, but after a moment he couldn’t breathe, and he pushed her away. He clung onto her arm. “Id buz bird id.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back, then dropped a soft kiss on his forehead. </p>
<p>“Are you hungry? Neelix replicated chicken soup for your lunch.” She pointed to a thermos, placed on the nightstand beside a stack of PADDS. </p>
<p>His lips pursed and he frowned. “Nod ride now.” He noticed a familiar looking pot beside the thermos and his mind leapt back a few nights. The chicken soup might not make him feel better, but the pot of chocolate pudding was certainly an incentive! </p>
<p>She plucked a couple of the PADDS from the bedside table and began to sort through them.</p>
<p>“Idz Hairbee cubbing to vizid be?” </p>
<p>She shook her head. “The Doctor has you under quarantine until he can figure out this particular version of the virus. The last thing <em>Voyager</em> needs is to have the crew get <em>sig</em> again.” She grinned. </p>
<p>Tom ignored the mockery. “Bud ‘e did’id ged sig da firsd tibe,” he argued. </p>
<p>“He doesn’t want to chance it. Do you want to read something?” she asked, proffering a PADD. “I’m working on reports and I’ll be another hour or so.” </p>
<p>“Babey bi’ll reed <em>Vulgan Lub Slabe</em>.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. </p>
<p>“I don’t think you’re feeling up to that one just yet,” she laughed. “Maybe in a couple of days.”</p>
<p>“You’re ride,” he agreed. “I thing di’ll reed <em>Kids Be Deadby</em> idsted.” She nodded and kissed his forehead, then stood and moved back to the dining table. Tom picked up the PADD and thumbed it on. He noticed that B’Elanna had opened <em>Women Warriors</em> this morning. He tapped the novel by Mickey Spillane and began to read.</p>
<p><em>All I saw was the dame standing there in the glare of the headlights waving her arms like a huge puppet and the curse I spit out filled the car and my own ears. I wrenched the wheel over, felt the rear end start to slide…</em> He scrolled a little further down the page. <em>Easy, feller, easy. She’s a fruitcake. Don’t plow her. Not yet. Hold your breath a minute, let it out easy, then maybe bend her over the fender and paddle her tail until she gets some sense in—</em></p>
<p>Tom leaned slightly forward and peered at B’Elanna, ensconced at his dining table PADD in hand, studiously reading. He looked back at the PADD in his own hands and backed up to the index, selected the title and deleted it. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to include that book in the list he’d made for her to read while she’d been the one who was sick. Maybe he’d forgotten how it was written? The parlance of the time period. Maybe he’d been trying to get a rise out of her? It didn’t matter now; he was just thankful that she hadn’t opened the file. </p>
<p>He opened <em>Women Warriors</em> instead and lost himself in the trials of Rorg and M’Nea for a while until the words started to blur and he had trouble remembering what he’d just read. B’Elanna had returned the stack of PADDS to the nightstand, and he leaned forward only lettin out a little <em>chuff</em> as the movement put pressure on his lungs and stomach, and grabbed the whole stack. He sorted through them, looking for the one that held his personal logs, and tossed the rest back when he found it. They skittered across the surface of the table, knocking his alarm clock and combadge to the floor. B’Elanna glanced up, but he waved her off. He thumbed on the PADD and started to record his log, keeping his voice low: </p>
<p>“Stardade… Di do’de gow whad da stardade id. Di’m’b sig wid da Kligog pogx, curdasee ob B’lahda. Oll ub by freds hab abadod’d be. Eben B’lahad ids keebig her didsdence.” </p>
<p>He heard a snort from the other room. </p>
<p>“Da Dogder thigs Di mide ibfekd da cru, so Di’m logged in by quardurs undil Di can mayg an escabe. Di dot B’lahda mide helb be, bud she’s ahlied ‘erselb wid da Dogder ad haad refoods do led be hab vididors. By odby hobe reds wid Hairbee.”</p>
<p>“Are you having fun?” B’Elanna was standing at the foot of his bed, arms crossed, a smile tugging at her mouth. </p>
<p>“Di tig dere’s somtig wrog wid da PADD,” Tom said. “Dere’s red squigly linds uder mos’d ub da wurds in by log.” </p>
<p>She moved closer and pulled the PADD from his hand. She quickly scanned his log entry and nodded. “Ahh,” she said. “I see what it is. You’re bored and the PADD is obviously trying to entertain you.” </p>
<p>“Di lige id bedder wend you enderdain be.” He waggled his eyebrows and plucked at her uniform jacket. </p>
<p>“Well, it just happens that I’m finished reading my reports and,” she yawned and stretched elaborately, “I feel like taking a nap.” </p>
<p>Tom grinned and flipped the blankets back. He patted the other side of the bed. Her side of the bed. She stripped down to her regulation underwear, then climbed over him and settled beside him, cuddling up, her head on his mound of pillows, her arm low around his hips. </p>
<p>“Di feel bedder ahredy,” he said.</p>
<p>“Good,” she said. </p>
<p>Her hand travelled up his ribs to his chest, and he settled his own over it and sighed in contentment.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>End note: A bang-on translation of Tom’s stubby node dialogue for those who couldn’t decipher it, curtesy of the amazing Tortitudette:</p>
<p>Gib id to be straid, I’b dyig, ar’d I? — <i> Give it to me straight, I’m dying, aren’t I? </i></p>
<p>Sordy. — <i> Sorry. </i></p>
<p>Why id my node plubed ub? — <i> Why is my nose plugged up? </i></p>
<p>Why did’id da hybo helb by node? — <i> Why didn’t the hypo helps my nose? </i></p>
<p>You gabe be da Kligog pogx. — <i> You gave me the Klingon pox. </i></p>
<p>Id buz bird id. — <i> It was worth it. </i></p>
<p>Nod ride now. — <i> Not right now. </i></p>
<p>Idz Hairbee cubbing to vizid be? — <i> Is Harry coming to visit me? </i></p>
<p>Bud ‘e did’id ged sig da firsd tibe, — <i> But he didn’t get sick the first time, </i></p>
<p>Babey bi’ll reed Vulgan Lub Slabe.— <i> Maybe I’ll read Vulcan Love Slave.  </i></p>
<p>I thing di’ll reed Kids Be Deadby idsted. — <i> I think I’ll read Kiss Me Deadly instead. </i></p>
<p>Stardade… Di do’de gow whad da stardade id. Di’m’b sig wid da Kligog pogx, curdasee ob B’lahda. Oll ub by freds hab abadod’d be. Eben B’lahad ids keebig her didsdence. — <i> Stardate… I don’t know what the stardate is.  I’m sick with the Klingon pox, courtesy of B’Elanna.  All of my friends have abandoned me.  Even B’Elanna is keeping her distance.  </i></p>
<p>Da Dogder thigs Di mide ibfekd da cru, so Di’m logged in by quardurs undil Di can mayg an escabe. Di dot B’lahda mide helb be, bud she’s ahlied ‘erselb wid da Dogder ad haad refoods do led be hab vididors. By odby hobe reds wid Hairbee. — <i> The Doctor thinks I might infect the crew, so I’m locked in my quarters until I can make an escape.  I thought B’Elanna might help me, but she’s allied herself with the Doctor and has refused to let me have visitors.  My only hope rests with Harry. </i></p>
<p>Di tig dere’s somtig wrog wid da PADD. — <i> I think there’s something wrong with the PADD. </i></p>
<p>Dere’s red squigly linds uder mos’d ub da wurds in by log. — <i> There’s red squiggly lines under most of the words in my log. </i></p>
<p>Di lige id bedder wend you enderdain be. — <i> I like it better when you entertain me. </i></p>
<p>Di feel bedder ahredy, — <i> I feel better already, </i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. MAGIC - HELLO, I’M:</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: Thank you science.nasa.gov for the simple explanation of something I knew but couldn’t quite put into words. </p><p> </p><p>They’d been busy lately; when were they not? There was always something that called one or the other of them away or kept them late, long after their shift should have ended. But after the <em>incident</em> last month in sickbay, Tom had been trying harder to understand her, to make allowances, to peer inside her head, maybe. He’d had no idea that she believed he would leave her one day. Believed, like it was fated and she’d just been waiting for the day to come. He’d tried to reassure her with words, with holding her in a strong hug, with kisses and touches, but he wondered if he’d actually gotten through to her. The only way he was leaving her was in a body bag, eighty years from now. He needed her to believe that.</p><p>They’d spent the better part of the last two weeks working on upgrades to <em>Voyager’s</em> systems: life support, the warp core, propulsion. Those hinges that allowed the nacelles to pivot when they jumped to warp. Chakotay had even ordered an inspection of the carpets looking for worn patches or areas where they’d pulled away from the wall; a tripping hazard in the event of an emergency. </p><p>There would be no emergencies tonight! In a mirror of B’Elanna’s resourcefulness in pulling together forty-eight hours of holodeck time four months ago, which Tom will never, ever forget again, he had wheedled and schemed and guilted Chakotay, the Doctor, Neelix, and half of engineering so that he and B’Elanna could have an evening off. Really off. Nothing short of a red alert would interrupt them. </p><p>Provided she actually showed up. She was twenty minutes late for their date. For her, that was nothing. Last week, she’d been five hours late for dinner. In fact, he’d tried to stay up and wait for her, but he’d fallen asleep on the couch and only woken when she’d come home and kissed him awake with a ‘wake up and go to bed’ whispered in his ear. But he’d insisted and she’d promised him that she’d be on time tonight.</p><p>He double-tapped his combadge. “B’Elanna, it’s Tom. Where are you?” </p><p>“Right here.” </p><p>She waltzed through the doors with a smile. He moved toward her and pulled her into a kiss. When they broke apart, she glanced around the room noting the candles, the blanket on the floor, the picnic basket, and bottle of synthoholic Merlot (approved as safe for consumption by the Doctor) supplied by Neelix. Tom had had to get permission from Chakotay to open the mothballed forward observation lounge for the evening, a formality that the commander had only been too happy to approve provided he made an inspection of the carpet. Tom, having been the one to clean said carpet before he’d laid down the blanket, had reported it to be ship-shape (not that it had seen a lot of wear in the last six years). </p><p>“This is nice,” B’Elanna commented. “What’s the occasion?” </p><p>“Hello, Lieutenant Torres. You might not remember me; I’m your husband. It’s nice to see you again.”</p><p>She snorted. “Okay, I admit I’ve been neglecting you a little.” Her hand settled on his chest then slid downward on a determined trajectory.</p><p>“You’re forgiven,” Tom said. He reached for her again and pulled her back into his arms. She’d sailed into her second trimester (near as they could guess with a hybrid pregnancy), leaving her occasional dizziness, slight nausea (to be fair, pleeka rind casserole did the same to him), and doubts behind. Her energy had doubled, as had her appetite, and she’d put on a few kilos in all the right places. As much as he loved her naturally lean and athletic body, Tom found he liked her new roundness, new softness. Her newly returned libido. It was like their first few months together, all over again. </p><p>She pulled at his jacket’s fastener and scrunched her nose at him. “You promised me an evening of <em>magic</em>.” </p><p>“So I did.” He dropped a light peck on her mouth then stepped behind her and took her by the shoulders, turning her slightly toward the wall of large windows. Stars winked at them against a blanket of velvet black, and the red, green, and purple gases of a class 9 nebula swirled before them. </p><p>“Presto,” Tom said. He felt her jerk slightly. </p><p>“Presto what?” she asked.</p><p>“Magic.” </p><p>She turned in his arms and lifted an eyebrow. “Magic? How?”</p><p>Tom pointed and she turned her head and followed. “What do you see when you look at that nebula?” </p><p>“Hydrogen, helium, serillium, trace amounts of dilithium, maybe.” She shrugged. “I expected something a little more… romantic.”</p><p>“What could be more romantic? See that dense area to the right? It’s the birth of a star. A whole new system is forming and growing. One day there’ll be planets, whole civilizations rising, people living out their lives and falling in love and starting families of their own.” His hand settled on her rounded stomach. His voice lowered and he looked into her eyes. “It is magic.”</p><p>B’Elanna smiled at that, and it might have been the reddish glow from the nebula, but he thought he caught a hint of a blush on her cheeks. </p><p>“You can be so sweet sometimes,” she said. “But it’s physics. Knots of gas and dust compact through turbulence within the cloud and once they have sufficient mass, gravitational attraction causes them to collapse. Eventually, pressure from gravity causes the material in the centre to heat up, creating a protostar. The remaining dust forms planets. Physics. And chemistry.” She shrugged. </p><p>“Planets full of people who fall in love, get married, make babies.” He rubbed her belly again. “Magic.” </p><p>She snorted. “That’s biology.”</p><p>“Magic,” he insisted. He lifted a hand to her face and rubbed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “And the good kind of chemistry,” he allowed. </p><p>She glanced around the lounge, noting the tables and chairs piled in one corner, and the wide couch situated under the observation bay. She turned back toward him and pulled him into a long, slow kiss. “Why don’t you show me some real magic, Paris?” </p><p>This time, he didn’t argue.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP - PROVIDE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: Today’s prompt is a coda/continuation of one from fictober. You don’t have to read it first, but it might be helpful if you do. Look for it under My October Crisis, chapter 31: Here Comes the Sun. Or try this link that likely won’t work because AO3 is like that.</p><p>https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853230/chapters/50619314 </p><p>*****</p><p>“Would we like to try to nurse before little Miss Torres-Paris naps again? There’s no rush, but I’d like you to be comfortable with it before I release you back to your quarters. And of course, if you have any problems, I’ll only be a comm signal away. For now anyway.” </p><p>The Doctor appeared at the foot of B’Elanna’s biobed, his mouth stretched into a wide smile as he gazed at Miral, content in Tom’s arms. He’d been giving them space, sitting at his desk making notes, likely preparing to close out the files on the crew now that <em>Voyager</em> had finally made it home. Home. The idea was at once both overwhelming and banal. For seven years they’d focused their energies on getting back to the Alpha Quadrant, on getting back to Earth, and they’d finally done it. But when he looked into Miral’s eyes, at her feathery forehead ridges and tiny, rosebud mouth, Tom now was certain that his wife and baby daughter were <em>home</em> for him. </p><p>B’Elanna sat up straighter in the bed, and the Doctor moved to help her arrange the pillows behind her back to give her more support. She turned toward Tom with an expectant expression, and he realized that she was waiting for him to hand the baby back to her. He didn’t really want to but he did it anyway, leaning close to her and laying Miral on a pillow that B’Elanna had placed on her lap. He missed her warm solidity immediately. </p><p>They’d gone over the mechanics of it and watched a holovid, of all things. B’Elanna had been mildly dismissive of the Doctor’s prep work, stating that Klingon mothers didn’t have any problems nursing their babies, <em>Despite how much I know you enjoy them, Tom, but feeding babies is what they’re for!</em> but Tom knew from his extensive reading on the subject that there could be hurdles to overcome. Too little milk, too much milk, cracked nipples, an improper latch. Like anything that was supposed to be simple, it could very quickly become complicated, and he wasn’t sure how B’Elanna would feel—how she would take it—if she and Miral had a problem with such a <em>natural process</em>. </p><p>The Doctor wisely kept his mouth closed while B’Elanna found the hidden slit in her robe and bared her breast, then tapped Miral’s chin with the tip of her finger. Miral opened her mouth obligingly and B’Elanna pushed her toward her nipple. She hissed and jerked as Miral sucked it into her mouth. </p><p>Tom didn’t know what to do. He reached toward them but B’Elanna turned slightly away, her shoulder blocking his access to them both. She poked her finger into Miral’s mouth and broke the seal. “Let’s try that again,” she said. The baby snuffled, but this time, when B’Elanna brought her to her breast, her mouth opened wider and she appeared to latch on properly. Tom caught B’Elanna’s eyes and lifted an eyebrow. </p><p>Her smile was tentative. “I think it’s good?” She glanced at the Doctor, who nodded. </p><p>“How does it feel?” he asked.</p><p>“A little strange but it doesn’t hurt. It just pulls a little.” She ran a finger over the baby’s downy hair and smiled. “That’s right,” she said, her tone changing and becoming soft and warm, “you be gentle with mommy.” </p><p>“She appears to be a quick learner, just like her mommy,” the Doctor commented.</p><p>Miral started swallowing in earnest then, her throat working, jaw moving rhythmically. Her tiny nose was scrunched against the full curve of B’Elanna’s breast. The hand that Tom could see was clenched into a tiny fist, nestled under her chin. B’Elanna was gazing downward at Miral with a besotted smile, and the baby was staring back at her with a tiny, puzzled frown. The love between them was a tangible thing.  </p><p>The air in Tom’s lungs felt heavy and his breath stuttered. Tears pricked his eyes. Their daughter wasn’t even an hour old. He reached out and stroked her head. B’Elanna glanced up at him and their eyes met for a moment before she looked back at Miral. It occurred to him, if they’d still been in that transwarp conduit, if he’d still been at the helm, he’d have missed this moment, too. How much would he have missed if they’d made it home sooner? He thought of their other attempts: the wormhole with that Romulan scientist on the other end, that Sikarian <em>space folding bubble</em>, the Quantum Slipstream drive. If any of those had been successful and they’d made it back to the Alpha Quadrant earlier in their journey, before she’d loved him, would he and B’Elanna still be here, in this moment, with their newborn daughter? He liked to think so. He hoped so. </p><p>But too much of what had transpired in the last seven years could have torn them apart, or stood in the way of their ever coming together at all. He thought of all the paths he’d taken, all the steps he’d travelled, the turns he’d taken to reach this point. He was infinitely grateful to the universe for its kindness in leading him here. </p><p>Miral’s eyes were closing, and her jaw was working lazily. B’Elanna held her tiny hand between her thumb and forefinger. She lost her nipple and her head fell back onto B’Elanna’s arm. Though she hadn’t made more than a sweet-sounding coo or snuffle, Tom half expected her to screech her displeasure, but instead her lips came together in a moist pout and her eyes closed as she slipped back into sleep. </p><p>“You should try to burp her,” the Doctor suggested. “So she doesn’t wake later with a pain in her tummy.” </p><p>B’Elanna glanced at Tom. She had a slight look of panic in her eyes, but he was already reaching for the baby. He cupped her head and bottom, his large hands almost spanning the whole length of her, and brought her to his shoulder. He’d forgotten a cloth—to keep his uniform shoulder clean in case of a <em>systems backup</em>—but he realized that he didn't care. He snuggled her into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and placed a tiny kiss on her ear before he secured her head in place with his chin and started to rub her back in gentle, circular motions, just like the vid had shown. </p><p>He caught B’Elanna’s bemused expression as she watched them. Miral was a limp weight on his shoulder, soft and relaxed in sleep, and far heavier than she should be considering her diminutive size. He resisted the urge to squeeze her tight. </p><p>“Start with the other breast next time,” the Doctor was saying. “And we’ll see if she can stay awake long enough to nurse from both.” </p><p>A jolt of concern sent adrenaline surging through him. “It’s okay that she fell asleep, right?” Tom asked before B’Elanna could.</p><p>“Perfectly alright. She’s had a big day.” </p><p>“We all have,” B’Elanna agreed.</p><p>Tom opened his mouth to reply but he was cut off by a chirp from his combadge.</p><p>“<em>Captain Janeway to Lieutenant Paris. I hate to interrupt you, but there’s someone </em>else<em> here who’d like to say hello to you.</em>”</p><p>He could hear the repressed happiness in her voice, but her words were like a bucket of cold water to Tom, bringing down his mood. He hugged the baby a little tighter and looked at B’Elanna; her expression was unreadable. She raised her eyebrows in silent encouragement, then reached up and tapped his combadge. He couldn’t ignore his captain, after all. “Paris here, Captain. I… I’ll be there soon,” he said. </p><p>There was a pause, then she answered. “<em>Is everything alright, Tom?</em>”</p><p>“Perfectly alright, Captain,” B’Elanna answered. “Just give us a few minutes. Please.” </p><p>“<em>Of course. Janeway out.</em>”</p><p>Irritation was sitting like a rock in Tom’s belly. Wasn’t it enough that he’d missed his daughter’s birth for duty, did the Captain have to interrupt them so soon? Couldn’t it wait? Couldn’t <em>he</em> wait? </p><p>When he made no move to hand the baby back to her, B’Elanna tilted her head in question. “Three guesses who’s up there waiting for you,” she said. </p><p>“Yeah, well, he can wait a little longer.” He knew he sounded bitter, but he didn’t care. </p><p>Her expression softened, her mouth pulling into a mue of sympathy. “He’s been waiting for more than seven years. Don’t you think he’s waited long enough?”</p><p>“I’m not the one who walked away,” Tom began. But he had been, he realized. Literally, when he’d jumped that transport and left Earth after being tossed out of Starfleet. He hadn’t bothered to tell his father where he was going because he hadn’t known. Hadn’t cared. </p><p>“He’s come back now.” She reached up and cupped his cheek, then her hand drifted to the baby’s back. “Doesn’t that count for something?” </p><p>A muscle in Tom’s jaw jumped.</p><p>“After all this time,” she said quietly, “he probably just wants to see you, to make sure you’re okay.” </p><p>Tom shook his head, careful to keep his voice down so he wouldn’t wake the baby as he replied. “He already saw me when he contacted <em>Voyager</em> from the Pathfinder Project lab. Hell, half the Admirals from Starfleet Command were there, plus Reg Barclay himself. They all saw me at the helm.” </p><p>“Tom,” she began but he cut her off. </p><p>“Starfleet kept me from being here when our daughter was born. This is our time.” </p><p>“Starfleet?” She frowned at him, genuine puzzlement creasing her forehead. “He’s your father.”</p><p>“And he can wait to give me the lecture.”</p><p>She softened on a sigh, and Tom assumed the fight had gone out of her. He should have known better. “Look at her,” she said. She stroked Miral’s tiny head, her fingertips playing in her fluff of dark hair. “Is there anything she ever could do to make you stop loving her?” Her eyes glimmered and her nose had turned pink. “You were gone from him forever, Tom, the crew was declared dead but now you’re back. He loves you, Tom. Give him a chance to make it right.” </p><p>Her words struck him like walking face first into a door that hadn’t opened. He’d wanted to dismiss her argument as hormone-induced sentimentality, but he realized that she knew <em>exactly</em> what she was talking about. Her own father had made the first move to heal the rift between them—a rift of his own devising. At least Tom had had an equal share in creating the mess that lay between him and his father. </p><p>“Do you want me to go with you?” she asked.</p><p>She could probably do it, too. His amazing, strong, brilliant wife <em>would</em> walk out of sickbay barely an hour after giving birth and stand between him and the great Admiral Owen Paris if he asked her to. In her sickbay blues and bare feet. He wasn’t going to ask. He <em>huffed</em> a laugh as he shook his head, his mood immediately lightening. “Okay,” he relented. “But if he’s waited seven years, he’ll wait ten more minutes.” He wasn’t quite ready to put Miral down.</p><p>He turned and leaned his back against the biobed, and B’Elanna sat up and rested her head on his shoulder. They both watched their daughter as she slept. B’Elanna hung onto him, one arm around his back, the other reaching across his crooked arm and chest so she could touch Mial’s tiny back. Her hand rose and fell minutely as the baby breathed. </p><p>Tom heard a click and glanced up. The Doctor lowered his camera with a smile. “Your first family portrait,” he said. “I couldn’t resist capturing the moment.” </p><p>Eventually, Tom gave in to B’Elanna’s steady stare and the ticking of his internal chronometer, and eased the baby back into her mother’s arms. His own felt curiously empty now that he’d let her go. He gazed at them for a moment, and tried to lock the image of them in his mind. </p><p>“Tell him hi for me,” B’Elanna said. </p><p>Tom’s mouth twitched. “Not a chance. He’ll probably order me to escort him down here so he can meet you in person.” She raised an eyebrow at that, her mouth pulled into a frown, and Tom raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. I’ll give him a chance.” </p><p>She glanced at the sleeping baby. “That’s all we’re asking.” </p><p>“We,” Tom agreed. He leaned down to kiss his wife and drop a soft peck on his daughter’s head, then drew in a deep, fortifying breath as he straightened. B’Elanna’s eyes drifted to his shoulder, and he twisted his neck and spotted a line of drool on the red fabric. He rubbed at it. “I guess we’ll have to get used to that.” He stilled, then reached higher and plucked the pips off his collar and held them out to her.</p><p>“Tom?” She frowned, confused. </p><p>“I meant it when I said I’d resign from Starfleet,” he said. “Now’s as good a time as any.” </p><p>She simply stared at him for a long moment, dumbfounded, then she wrapped his hand in hers and pressed his fingers closed over his pips. “I think you should give them to Captain Janeway, don’t you?”</p><p>He clenched his fist, the muscles in his hand jerking spasmodically. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re right.”</p><p>*** </p><p>Tom’s stride hitched as he stepped onto the bridge. Earth loomed bright and large in the forward viewport, McKinley Station taking up a portion of the screen. Their view was dotted with Federation ships, some appearing frozen in space as they orbited the planet, others, small runabouts, zipping between the planet’s surface and the space station. Tom assumed they would be docking there; the engineering teams would likely be chomping at the bit to get a look at <em>Voyager’s</em> non-regulation armour.</p><p>Janeway had turned in her chair and was smiling at him. “In my ready room, Tom.” She nodded toward the doors to her right, but made no move to get up. </p><p>Tom glanced at the closed doors. “Could I speak with you, Captain? Privately.” </p><p>“Can it wait? Someone is already in there, and he’s been waiting for you.” Her expression softened as she added, “For years, I think.” </p><p>“The briefing room then.” At her puzzled frown, he added, “Please, Captain. It’ll only take a minute.” </p><p>She assessed him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright.” </p><p>She nodded at Chakotay, still at the conn as he guided <em>Voyager</em> to Earth, and rose and led Tom across the bridge. He wondered if he should feel a stab of jealousy, of loss, as he glanced at the helm, but he didn’t. Instead, he felt a lightness, a lifting. A rightness. His fist tightened on his pips. Harry smiled at him as he walked past ops, and he grinned back. He felt the urge to laugh. </p><p>“How’s B’Elanna?” Janeway asked as soon as the doors closed on Tom’s back.</p><p>“She’s fine,” he answered. “She’s resting.” </p><p>“And…” She hesitated, “Miral…?”</p><p>Tom confirmed the name with a nod. “She’s amazing. As gorgeous as her mother.” He was momentarily lost for words. “She’s perfect.” </p><p>The captain squeezed his arm. “With you two as her parents, there was never any doubt.” She smiled widely. “I’ll be down to see her—to see them both—in a little while.” </p><p>Tom nodded. Of course she would want to visit them. Janeway, Chakotay, Harry. Likely half of engineering would take their turn. He took a breath. “I think you actually did have a few doubts, in the beginning.” She tilted her head and opened her mouth to contradict him, but Tom raised a hand and cut her off. “I know that you took a chance with me, with B’Elanna too, and I like to think I’ve lived up to your expectations.” </p><p>“You’ve exceeded any expectations, any hopes, I ever had seven years ago, Tom. You, B’Elanna, Harry. Every member of this crew has performed beyond anything I imagined. I hope you know I feel that way; that I’ve told you.” </p><p>Tom nodded, emotion sitting heavy in his chest. “Yeah.” The decision that had been so easy to make, was suddenly difficult to announce. “B’Elanna and I haven’t discussed her plans yet, and I know that things are up in the air right now with all of the Maquis crew.” Him too, likely, he suddenly realized. </p><p>“Don’t worry about that,” Janeway began. “I’ll fight tooth and nail before I allow Starfleet Command to strip any of my crew of their rank.” </p><p>Her shoulders went back and her chin came up, and for a moment she reminded him of his wife in a high temper. He had to smile at that. He nodded. He hadn’t expected any less. “I’ve decided that I’m going to stay home with the baby. I’m going to look after her.”</p><p>Janeway beamed. “I can picture you, elbow deep in diapers and mashed carrots. Don’t worry, I’ve already entered our tiniest crew member in my log, and that both you and B’Elanna are on parental leave as of half an hour ago. I don’t know what the leave allocation is at the moment, since the Dominion War, but when we left it was two years. I do know that Starfleet Command will want to debrief both of you, but I’m sure they’ll make an exception for B’Elanna and put it off for a few weeks.”</p><p>Tom nodded. “That’s fine. I expected that. But, you don’t understand.” He held out his hand, palm up, fingers open. His pips caught the light and sparkled. “I’ll write whatever reports and logs they need and update the files on each of my staff, but when I said I was going to stay home with Miral I meant that looking after her will be my job for the foreseeable future.” He couldn’t contain a smile at the thought. “With respect, Captain, and my sincerest thanks, I’m resigning my commission.” </p><p>Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She looked from his hand to his face, and something in his eyes must have convinced her. She held out her hand and he rather unceremoniously dumped the pips onto her palm. She pulled him into a tight hug. He returned it. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything. I’m here today because of you.”</p><p>Janeway pulled back and patted his chest, his pips held securely in her other hand. “We couldn’t have made it back without you two, you know that, right? We’re <em>here</em> because of your skill and your talent. And I’ll always be grateful that I brought you with me seven years ago.”</p><p>Tom smiled. It had turned into an emotional day for him, in many ways. His mission accomplished, all he wanted to do was return to sickbay and his little family. Family… He’d almost forgotten. Kathryn Janeway hadn’t.</p><p>“Though,” she continued, “since we reestablished contact with home, I’ve felt badly about taking all of you away from your families for so long. I think your father has waited long enough.” </p><p>Her words were an echo of B’Elanna’s, and Tom found himself pulling his shoulders back, raising his chin and standing at attention, like he was preparing for battle. “I guess so,” he agreed.</p><p>*</p><p>His back was to him when he entered. He was standing on the upper level of the captain’s ready room, gazing out the wide viewport at Earth in the distance. He turned when he heard the soft swish of the doors, and they both stilled and just stared at each other for a long moment. He looked… old. And small. The tall, stern, foreboding man who Tom remembered from his childhood was gone, replaced with a stranger who looked beaten, tired. </p><p>The admiral’s smile was tentative. “I called your mother as soon as we broke communication with <em>Voyager</em>,” he said. “She could barely hear me for all the whooping and hollering in the lab.” </p><p>Tom could only nod; he’d always had a smart comeback for anything his father told him, even if he only kept it in his head, but his mind had blanked, and he’d been robbed of his voice. </p><p>“She’s getting the first transport home. She’s on Mars colony,” Owen added, “attending a symposium. And Kathleen should be home in a few weeks.” </p><p>“Where’s Moria?” Tom was surprised by how strong his voice sounded. </p><p>“In San Francisco. I could barely talk her out of arranging a sitter for her boys and beaming up to <em>Voyager</em> as soon as she’s docked.”</p><p>Tom nodded again. He took a few hesitant steps forward. “I imagine Starfleet Intelligence is going to limit access to the ship, at least until they have the chance to examine all the upgrades we’ve made to her systems. That will include family members.” He’d made it up the steps and was standing awkwardly a couple of metres from his father.</p><p>“The privileges of rank,” Owen agreed. “And they’ll want to debrief B-B’Elanna immediately.” He hesitated on her name, then continued. “I hope she’s up to it.” </p><p>“She’s resting,” Tom said. “It’s been a… long day.” </p><p>“Yes, of course.” His eyes raked Tom, from his face to his boots, then back again. Tom saw the moment they landed on his empty collar. </p><p>“Kathryn told me you were in sickbay. Were you assisting the Doctor? Were there many casualties when you came through the conduit?” </p><p>“No, surprisingly. We were tossed around a bit, but there were just some superficial scrapes and burns in engineering. Nothing that really required the Doctor’s attention.” In fact, he and B’Elanna and Miral had had sickbay to themselves. It struck him then that Janeway hadn’t spilled the news; his father didn’t know that B’Elanna had given birth today. That he had a granddaughter. “I’m sure it’ll all be in the Doctor’s log,” he said.</p><p>“Of course,” Owen agreed. </p><p>Tom shuddered a breath. This was becoming more difficult instead of less as the minutes went by. “Sir, I—”</p><p>“Tom,” his father began, “son, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry… how glad I am…” </p><p>“Dad.”</p><p>Owen lifted his arms but he hesitated, and Tom closed the distance between them in two strides. Then he was in his father’s arms, both holding the other in a firm hug. After a short eternity, they broke apart, and Tom knew he had to tell him his news. “B’Elanna’s in sickbay,” he said. </p><p>“My God, is she alright?” </p><p>Tom registered the alarm on his father’s face and was quick to reassure him. “She had the baby.” He couldn’t contain a grin. “Near as we can tell it was right when we broke through the transwarp conduit. So we don’t really know if Miral was born here or in Borg space.” He laughed. </p><p>His father shook his head in wonder. “Miral?”</p><p>Tom nodded. “After B’Elanna’s mother.” </p><p>“Well, that’s fine. That’s just fine.” Owen gripped Tom’s shoulders and gave him a pat. “More news for your own mother. We’ll never keep her off the ship now.” </p><p>Tom laughed. “Do you want…?” But to his surprise, Owen shook his head. </p><p>“There’s nothing I’d like more but your mother would never forgive me if I got a peek at her first granddaughter before she did. Besides, you should be with them now. This is your time.”</p><p>“Speaking of that, I’ve made a decision. We made a decision.” He stood taller, shoulders back, spine straight. “You probably think Captain Janeway busted me down to crewman,” he gestured to his collar, “but the truth is, I’ve resigned my field commission.” And here it comes, Tom thought. The disappointment, the frustration. The anger. The bridge they’d begun to build between them would be swept away by his father’s dashed expectations. </p><p>To his surprise, Owen merely stilled for a moment, then nodded. “I see. Yes. Well, I know that you never really wanted a life in Starfleet.”</p><p>It was perhaps as close to an apology as Tom would get for now. He realized that even though his father had all but told him to go back to his wife and new daughter, Owen hadn’t released him. His hand was resting on Tom’s elbow, as if he feared if he let go, Tom would disappear for another seven years. </p><p>“That’s fine, just fine,” Owen repeated. “Whatever you two… three need, Tom, we can provide it, your mother and I. You’re home now; you don’t have to worry about replicator rations anymore.” He tried a smile.</p><p>Tom thought of his journey again, the turns in the road and the path he’d set himself upon, almost ten years ago now, when his inattention had caused a shuttle to crash onto a barren moon upending his own life and taking the lives of three of his friends. He’d spent a long time believing that he wasn’t worthy of forgiveness, or second chances. Of happiness.</p><p>But the universe had forgiven him at last. It had smiled on him and provided. All Tom ever had to do was reach out and grab hold of everything it offered. </p><p>*****</p><p>End note: I know what the relaunch novels say, and what the online game says, and what a lot of people think, but my Tom does not stay in Starfleet after they return to the AQ. It was never his dream to join up, that was his father’s choice, not his. He wasn’t in uniform at that reunion party in Endgame-future. And when, in Endgame-present, he answered B’Elanna’s suggestion that he’d take the first opportunity to fly off on a mission and leave her with the diapers with ‘not a chance’, he meant it.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. SOULMATES - SESAME</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Notes: with thanks to Susan Wright and her Voyager novella The Badlands, Book 2, which takes place between KJ speaking with Tom at the penal settlement in Auckland, and Voyager’s entering the Badlands and the Caretaker’s Array yanking them to the DQ. And to the brand-spanking-new Voyager Handbook by Ben Robinson. And to the Star Charts book by Geoffrey Mandel. And to my own faithful companion, my WIP folder. I’ve dipped into one wip fic so many times, it’s almost skeletal now. </p><p>My notes are longer than the fic...</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p>“That’s our ship.” Lieutenant Stadi’s voice broke into Tom’s musings. “That’s <em>Voyager</em>. </p><p>It had taken five days to travel from the penal settlement in Auckland to Deep Space 9, a testament to the importance of Kathryn Janeway’s mission. The trip from Sol system to DS9 usually took the better part of two weeks. Four days to reach Starbase 621 on the <em>USS Halo</em> under the watchful eyes of Lieutenant Savage—a misnomer for the bland, button-down, self-contained young officer if Tom had ever heard one—then just a further nine hours in the somewhat more tender care of Lieutenant Stadi. </p><p>He’d spent most of that time attempting to pry a smile out of her, using every weapon in his seduction arsenal from compliments to flirting to teasing confrontation. She was immune. Of course, she was also Betazoid, so Tom figured she’d looked into the inner depths of his soul and decided he wasn’t worth the risk. </p><p>The ship was beautiful. She was all clean lines and spare contours, her nose stretched and elongated so she almost looked like she’d tip over if she were on terra firma. Tom knew better. The weight of her nacelles and aft end made her perfectly balanced. She was docked at an upper pylon of DS9’s docking ring. Spotlights flooded her duranium hull, and light from the many viewports glowed golden against the dull backdrop of Deep Space 9. </p><p>“Intrepid class,” Stadi continued. “Sustainable cruise velocity of warp factor nine point nine seven five.” </p><p>Tom’s mouth hung open in surprise. <em>Voyager</em> was fast! His fingers twitched, and he moved around Stadi’s chair toward the helm of the shuttle so he could have an unobstructed view of the larger ship. She looked powerful, almost appearing to be straining in her berth, and made him think of a racehorse who wanted out of her stall so she could gallop across a field. A starfield.</p><p>Stadi climbed above one of DS9’s connector struts and swung the <em>Drake</em> toward <em>Voyager’s</em> shuttle bay. Tom felt a flutter of loss; he’d been hoping to get a better, more complete view of her: nose to nacelles. Stadi must have read his mind. She banked, cutting to port, and swung the shuttle past the bay, angling upward in a controlled arc that deftly missed the station’s docking ring. </p><p>“Fifteen decks. Crew complement of one hundred and forty one. Bio-neural circuitry.”</p><p>“Bio-neural?” Tom asked. </p><p>“Some of the traditional circuitry has been replaced by gel packs that contain bio-neural cells. They organise information more efficiently, speed up response time.”</p><p>“Huh,” Tom grunted. He’d never heard of anything like that. Things had changed in the few years he’d been away. “She’s beautiful,” he said. He heard the note of wistfulness in his tone. </p><p>“Yes, it is,” Stadi responded. “I’m lucky to pilot it. You know, I’ve never understood this penchant humans have for referring to ships in the feminine.” She arced around <em>Voyager’s</em> nose and swung gracefully to starboard. </p><p>Tom stared at the blue glow of the main nav deflector, then his eyes skipped upward to the sensor pallets and the bridge. He could see little dots of colour, red and mustard yellow, through the viewport: the bridge crew busily preparing for launch. </p><p>“Is this her shakedown cruise?” Tom asked. Stadi remained silent as she dipped the shuttle under <em>Voyager’s</em> belly. More like a long, graceful throat, he thought. Envy tugged at him, surprising him with its potency. He was done with Starfleet, done with taking orders and holding his tongue when he disagreed with them. Done with meeting expectations. </p><p>“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to pry.” Their mission, tracking down a group of traitors and rescuing Janeway’s spy, was top secret, of course. </p><p>He switched to a safer topic, keenly aware that very shortly Stadi would dock the shuttle and his opportunity for conversation with someone other than a guard would end. “I think it’s because sailors would be away from home for such long periods that they felt married to their ship. Or maybe it was like a mother to them, the ship was like a womb?” He hadn’t really considered the question before. </p><p>“Maybe,” she replied. </p><p>She looped the shuttle upward again, circling around the port nacelle, then executed a perfect one hundred and eighty degree turn aiming their nose toward the shuttlebay. </p><p>“Shuttlecraft<em> Drake</em> to <em>Voyager</em>. Request permission to come aboard.” They hung in space, waiting for a reply. It came almost immediately.</p><p>“Drake, <em>this is </em>Voyager. <em>Permission granted. Welcome aboard. Culhane out.</em>”</p><p>Open, sesame, Tom thought, a moment before the doors parted and exposed the gleaming, open bay. He saw shuttles lined up along one side and a few crewmen on an elevated observation deck, observing while Stadi engaged thrusters and brought the <em>Drake</em> home. They landed softly on the deck without even so much as a bump.</p><p>“You’re free to explore the station,” she said as she scanned the helm and engineering displays to make sure that everything was in order. Tom had done the same without realizing it. “There’s a shopping promenade and a few restaurants.” She powered down the shuttle, then turned toward him. “You’ve been ordered to check in with station security before you go anywhere, though.”</p><p>“No, I haven’t.” Tom said. His jaw clenched and his chin went up. For a brief while, he’d forgotten his role here. And hers. Driver, escort, and jailor. </p><p>“Well,” she said, “consider it an order now.” </p><p>His eyes flicked to her rank pips. Was it his imagination or did he detect a note of sympathy in her voice? </p><p>“There's also a bar on the station that serves real alcohol; avoid the temptation to sample some.”</p><p>Nope, no sympathy there. “Of course, <em>Lieutenant</em>,” he drawled. </p><p>Their eyes held for a moment, then she looked away and brushed past him. “Don’t forget to report to the ship’s doctor and the captain.” </p><p>“Yeah, I remember the procedure. Sir,” he said. It had only been a few years ago that he’d walked onto the <em>Exeter</em>, his first posting. </p><p>She hit the release for the shuttle door and hopped down onto the deck. “I’ll see you around, Mister Paris,” she said. </p><p>He watched her stride confidently over to a man in a gold uniform, likely Culhane, and report in. Memories hit him, conditioning and muscle memory urging him to join her and file a flight log. A wave of longing washed over him, hot and jagged. He beat it down, put a lid on it. He straightened his shoulders and strode toward the exit, intending to explore the space station before he checked in with either sickbay or the bridge. </p><p>Stadi’s head turned and she glanced at him as he crossed to the far side of the shuttlebay. Her gaze was steady on him, and his chin lifted a little more. Welcome back to the life you could have had, Tom thought. He told himself he didn’t care.</p><p>***</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. OCEAN - ZIT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Orange clouds dotted with yellow, and pink, and purple, spheres glowed behind her closed eyelids. It made her think of the Alawanir Nebula, which she’d passed almost a year ago on her long trip to Sol system. The journey from Kessik IV to Earth had taken almost two months. She’d hopped transports and cargo vessels of various sizes, and for four days she’d been a guest on a Federation science ship, the <em>Raman</em>. Large enough for a crew complement of 80, they’d been operating with a pared-down crew of 24 when B’Elanna had booked passage with them for the second leg of her journey to Sol. She had the luxury of a cabin to herself, and limited run of the ship. It was her first taste of being part of a starship crew, and she’d loved it. The first time she’d felt like an adult.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, engineering had been off limits but she’d been allowed to observe while they’d flown past the nebula on their way to Dalvos, and Ensign W’pret’pran had taken B’Elanna under his wing—quite literally—and allowed her to shadow him at the science station on the bridge. It had been fascinating, and had cemented her decision to leave the dust bowl that was her childhood home behind, along with her mother’s expectations. The <em>Ramen’s</em> crew was made up of people from nine different species, ten if you counted her, and for once she hadn’t stood out, had simply blended into the crowd. It was the Federation contained on one small ship, and she took it as a sign of her rosy future. A sign that she’d made the right decision. </p>
<p>She’d studied nebulas in school, and was looking forward to her third year, when they’d be assigned a month-long placement on a starship. Of course, she’d have to get through her freshman year first. Then her sophomore. </p>
<p>It had been… challenging. The workload had hit her like an avalanche in her second week. She’d sailed through her classes in high school, generally bored out of her mind, and willing to take on extra assignments simply for something to do. Usually, her teachers hadn’t know what to do with her. The one exception had been her Elemental Properties teacher, Stonak, who had had exacting standards for all of his students and had seemed to take her <em>brilliance</em> in stride, expecting more from her than anyone else. She hadn’t really minded; her low opinion of her classmates' intelligence had spurred her to try to impress Stonak. And her grades, along with all those extra assignments, had guaranteed her acceptance into the Academy. </p>
<p>But it hadn’t been as easy to sail through her classes here as she’d anticipated. Everyone here was smart, and all of them seemed far more dedicated to Starfleet’s ideals and structure than she was. Eight months in, and she was already wondering if she’d made a mistake. One thing she was certain of: Starfleet Academy, studying science and engineering, was a damn sight better than a Klingon monastery full of dusty old scrolls and ridiculous myths! She’d had enough of Klingon customs and history, courtesy of her mother, to last her a lifetime!</p>
<p>“It’s starting to cool off; maybe we should head back now.” </p>
<p>Max’s voice broke into her reflections, and B’Elanna’s jaw clenched. Today was the first day in weeks that B’Elanna had free: no tutorials, no track practice, no essay due or major assignment to research. The weather had been uncharastically warm for mid-May, and she had decided to come to Ocean Beach and play tourist. Max had tried to talk her out of it, “The WCS has scheduled rain for three, and the wind off the water is cold on a good day.” Too cold for a Klingon. He hadn’t come out and said it, but that’s what he’d meant. </p>
<p>She had an annoying habit of acceding to his suggestions, of giving way when he thought whatever it was she wanted to do was a bad idea. Oh, he never came right out and <em>said</em> that he thought it was a bad idea. Instead he used phrases like: maybe we should, and, are you sure you want, and, why don’t we...instead.</p>
<p>For once she was firm. She’d been in San Francisco for almost a year and this was the first time she’d seen the ocean up close. The first time she’d dipped her toes into the chilly water, dug them into the sand and let the frothy waves wash over them. It had been invigorating. Like taking the first steps onto a new world. Kessik didn’t have large bodies of water, and certainly you wouldn’t want to wade into one if it had. The Pacific had been as much of a pull as the engineering and science labs when she’d decided to submit her application to the Academy. </p>
<p>And today, she was finally able to get here and Max wanted to rush her away. She lay still on her towel, the hot sun beaming on her face, a light breeze blowing her hair around. She’d brought a wetsuit, not because he’d suggested it when he realized that her mind was made up about today’s outing, but because she’d taken the time to research the mean temperature of the water this time of year. Thirteen degrees was cold for most bipedal humanoids, Klingon or human. Add to that the upswelling and strong currents, a person had to know what they were doing if they set more than a foot into the water. She was a strong swimmer, her mother had made sure of that after she’d almost drowned when she was a child. Miral had fished her out of the Sea of Gatan during a trip to Betazed; it was the first time she’d seen her mother rattled. </p>
<p>Afterward, she’d made sure that B’Elanna had swimming lessons. Thanks to her third lung, she could hold her breath for seven minutes—a feat that had alarmed her swim instructor—and her Klingon strength gave her yet another advantage over her human classmates. She could do a hundred meters breaststroke in thirty-seven seconds. </p>
<p>“B’Elanna? I thought you wanted to meet Gina and Wasso at the ‘Grind.” </p>
<p><em>He</em> wanted to meet his boring friends at the stupidly misnamed coffee shop on Pier 39. She didn’t. She hated that touristy area of San Francisco, and the shop’s pretentious affectation of grinding their own beans. Replicators existed for a reason! And their shitty excuse for a raktajino that Max insisted on buying her had a bitter undertaste. Mostly, she couldn’t <em>get over</em> the fact that the phrase they’d used to name the cafe, the daily grind, actually referred to the portion of grain that people ground for their bread, not coffee beans. </p>
<p>“I’m going in,” she announced. </p>
<p>She stood up and grabbed the wetsuit out of her bag and pulled it on. She’d researched how to do that, too, and had practiced in her dorm room this morning before Max had stopped by to pick her up. She should have thought to brush the sand off of her legs and feet first. </p>
<p>“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He was standing now, too, watching her dress with a critical eye. He reached for her hip and gave it a squeeze. “I didn’t bring one; I figured I could talk you out of going in.” </p>
<p>“Well, you can’t,” she said. She reached behind her head and pulled the loop to fasten the suit up the back; she wasn’t about to ask him to do it for her.</p>
<p>“You know, we have time before we’re supposed to meet them,” he said, referring to his friends. “Why don’t we go back to my room and spend it doing something else?”</p>
<p>“You can go back to your room and do whatever you want,” she said, “I’m going swimming.” </p>
<p>He stared at her silently while she wound her long hair into a twist and secured it with a clip so it would stay out of her eyes while she was in the water. After a moment, he huffed a laugh. “You know I love how headstrong you are, but I’m not kidding when I say it can get dangerous out there.” </p>
<p>She turned her head and surveyed the water. There were couples and families dotting the beach, children chasing seagulls or playing chicken with the breaks under the watchful eyes of their parents. Further out, surfers rode the larger waves and glided toward shore on swells of water. Beyond them, the horizon was dotted with sailed pleasure craft and smaller yachts. “I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, what doesn’t kill ya, right?” His voice had taken on a sour note; he didn’t like it when she didn’t bow to his broader knowledge of a situation. </p>
<p>“I won’t be out long,” she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek in an uncharastic show of public affection. She ignored the little voice in her head that chided her for thinking that she had to placate him every time she got her own way. “Then we can go to the pier early and walk around a bit.” She smiled. “Okay?” </p>
<p>“Sure.” A little of the petulance had left him and his mood had lifted slightly. “But don’t expect me to warm you up when you half freeze to death,” he shot at her retreating back. “Or maybe I will.”</p>
<p>The insinuation wasn’t lost on her, but she chose not to respond. A quickie with Max in his dorm room wasn’t her idea of a thrilling afternoon. Things hadn't been great between them for a while now. Human men are fragile, her mother had told her that often enough. B’Elanna had always assumed she meant their non-Klingon bodies, but a few years ago, she’d figured out that Miral had been referring to their egos. She’d assumed it was her way of explaining her father’s desertion. </p>
<p>Contrary to what she’d heard about the Klingon sex drive, her own body had let her down; sex with Max was lackluster at best and generally left her wanting… more. Left her wanting. Her human roommate, Cal—short for California, to her eternal embarassment—had pinpointed with uncanny accuracy the afternoon that B’Elanna and Max had first had sex. When B’Elanna had returned to their dorm room two hours after the library had closed, Cal had tried to pry all of the details out of her, and had teased her relentlessly. Eventually, she’d picked up on B’Elanna’s mood, and had quietly assured her that it took time for two people to mesh. That it would get better. It hadn’t. </p>
<p>Since then, Cal had referred to Max as B’Elanna’s <em>starter boyfriend</em>, a term that had annoyed her at first, but as the months passed she had to wonder if Cal wasn’t correct. Lately, they hadn’t meshed so much as scraped. Max has become as irritating as… as sand in her wet suit, as annoying as a pimple on the asscheek of Kahless, as one of her uncles had often said, much to her mother’s own annoyance.</p>
<p>The sand was hot and rough on the soles of her feet, and when she reached the water she sucked a breath at it’s chill. Knowing that Max was watching her and likely waiting for her to turn around and run back to him, she didn’t let it deter her. She walked out, her muscles tensing, skin complaining as the cold seeped in through the insulated suit. When she’d walked out about twenty metres, she bent and dove under the water, imaging herself one of the harbour seals that frolicked and swam in the waters off Pier 39. She skimmed through the water, her strong arms and legs propelling herself along as she fell into the rhythmic time of the breast stroke. After a while, she bobbed in the water, allowing the surf to shunt her back to shore. Her body was getting used to the temperature, and the sun was hot on her cool cheeks. The sunlight off the water was dazzling.</p>
<p>A patch of chilly water swirled around her, awakening a little swell of concern. She looked toward the beach, but couldn’t make out Max among the happy families and couples. She briefly wondered if he’d left in a fit of pique. Instead of appearing to grow larger, the people on shore seemed to be shrinking, and she realized that she was getting pulled out farther from land, instead of being pushed back to the beach. She didn’t panic. She took a quick gulp of air, filling her lungs before she pushed back toward land. She cut through the water, concentrating on her strokes, refusing to panic even as her limbs started to feel heavy, as her body slowed and chilled. </p>
<p>The water had warmed again, and she could hear conversation on the breeze, not just the shouts of children. Max was standing a few metres from the water’s edge, their towels and her bag in his hands, looking impatient and pissed off. Or maybe he was just squinting in the sunlight. The day was unusually bright, the sky cloudless for a change.</p>
<p>She stood, feeling the drag of gravity on her limbs, and trudged toward him through the knee-high water and mucky sand. </p>
<p>“It was cold, wasn’t it?” Max asked, determined to be right. </p>
<p>He was next to her now, offering her a towel so she could dry her face and hair, but there was a gulf between them she realized, an ocean of distance like the one between herself and her mother. She was tired of letting the waves take her, tired of paddling so hard to stay in one place. She didn’t know what she wanted, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t him. </p>
<p>“Are you ready to go?” Max asked. “They’ll be waiting for us. We don’t want to be late.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m ready to go.” </p>
<p>They walked up the beach toward the boardwalk and the transports back to town, and B’Elanna tuned out Max’s chatter and listened to the sounds of the gulls screeching, and the children shrieking, and the waves breaking on the shore.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. HURT/COMFORT - HEART</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: Set about six months after Tom and Starfleet part ways…</p><p>*</p><p>They’d stopped for a layover on Beloti VII while the captain worked out a few details about their cargo and payment. Something about being short a container or two. It wasn’t Tom’s problem. He had his pay packet in his pocket and a glass of whisky in his hand so all was right with the world. He lifted the glass and stared through it, focused on the amber liquid inside. The lights behind the bar shone on the liquid, creating red and gold and silver highlights in the alcohol. He peered beyond them at the shelves of bottles and the barkeep himself, their images bent and distorted; off-center. Simple refraction, Tom thought, the bending of light. He tilted his head up, down, moved the glass incrementally to the side. </p><p>“You drinking that or playing with it?” the bartender asked.</p><p>Tom smiled tightly and raised the glass to his mouth and drained it. He set it down with a double tap, and the man refilled it. </p><p>There was nothing like a good glass of whiskey: a hint of leather, an undernote of peat with a highlight of almonds and spice, and a smoky finish that lingered on the tongue. Of course, the liquid in Tom’s glass was, unfortunately, nothing like that at all. But it had a kick to it and that was really all that mattered. </p><p>In a lapse of judgement, he’d given in to a feeling of sentimentality, and logged onto the Federation subspace net and checked to see if he had any messages. Moira and his mother had left several. Kathleen had left only one, from the day after his court martial: <em>When you’re ready to come home, let me know. I’ll deal with dad.</em> It had made him smile, imagining how’d she'd belly up to the Admiral and lay down the law, barter a truce that would make their mother happy and leave their father’s pride wounded. He skipped his mother’s messages entirely, but Kathleen’s had fortified him to open the latest one from Moira. </p><p>She was pregnant, less than a year after the wedding. A boy. She’d implored him to write back so she’d know he was still alive and could stop worrying about him and focus on her pregnancy. </p><p>As guilt trips went, it wasn’t bad, he conceded, but they both knew that all she had to do was log onto the net to see that he’d read her message. Thirty seconds of tracing and she’d pinpoint his location when he logged on. There were few places where you could truly disappear in Federation space.</p><p>He was doing his damnedest to disappear into the bottle but the bartender, his eye out for signs of trouble and troublemakers, was slow with the refills. Tom rapped his glass on the bar again and reached inside his vest into the pocket for his purse.</p><p>“You look like you need some companionship.” </p><p>A tall, stunningly beautiful woman had appeared at his elbow, and Tom turned and studied her. Her pale purple hair was long and worn loose, slipping over her bare shoulders. Her skin was deeply tanned, almost ruddy, and he briefly wondered if she’d had too much of Beloti’s sun and wind. But she didn’t look like she worked in the fields of the small colony all day long or the mines, either. She looked more like she worked evenings... Her dress wrapped around a knockout figure, the neckline showing off her full breasts, a long slit up one side exposing a shapely leg. Small pointed chin, wide cheekbones and tilted amber eyes the colour of the whisky in his glass. Her generous lips curved in a smile that enticed him to smile back. He did. It wasn’t often that Tom could look a woman in the eyes. </p><p>“You read my mind,” he answered. </p><p>“Well, maybe if I were a Betazoid,” she replied. </p><p>Tom grinned as genuine pleasure sparked through him at her joke. He nodded at the bartender, who set a glass in front of the woman, then refilled Tom’s. “You’re Catullan, aren’t you? You’re a long way from home.” Beloti system was tucked under Cardassian space while Catulla was in the Beta Quadrant, far outside the hub of the Federation. </p><p>She leaned closer to him, and he caught a whiff of her perfume, a musky, spicy scent, and let it warm him. Close up, she was older than he’d first thought, but he didn’t let that deter him. Older women were… refreshing. They knew what they wanted and how to get it. In his experience, there was far less effort needed with an older woman, less preamble and pretense. </p><p>“I could say the same thing to you.” She smiled. “Human? Are you from Earth?” Her eyes lit up with interest. </p><p>The birthplace of the Federation, Earth had its glamour and its groupies. It also had very little poverty, and a manufactured plenty that it was occasionally reluctant to share with the outer colonies. He wondered just why she’d asked. “Me? I was born and raised on Relva Prime,” he lied, borrowing his dead friend Bruno’s history. Tom figured Bruno wouldn’t mind; he had committed a worse sin against him. And if he did, he couldn’t haunt him more than Tom’s memories already did. </p><p>“Actually, this place reminds me of home.” Tom gestured toward the doorway and the barren mining colony beyond. </p><p>“And are you missing home?” she asked. </p><p>“Not really,” he said. He downed his drink, noting that she hadn’t touched hers. Her shoulder brushed his as she turned and leaned her back against the bar. She propped herself on her elbows, and her breasts jutted out, stretching the thin cloth of her dress taught across her nipples. He could see all the way to the ring in her navel. He smiled. </p><p>“But you must get lonely, so far away from your family. You’re a hauler, aren’t you? Or have you come to Belos looking for work?” She reached for his hand and turned it over and held it in her own, running her fingers over his palm. “You have soft hands. It would be a shame to ruin them digging for magnesite.”</p><p>Tom closed his fingers around hers and smiled. Here it comes, he thought. </p><p>“Do you have accommodation here?” she asked. “There are rooms upstairs.” Her eyes flicked to his breast pocket, under his vest, where he’d stashed his purse. Of course, he realized, she’d seen him reach for it as she approached him; had likely been watching him for some time. </p><p>“That sounds nice,” he agreed. He dug a few coins out of his pocket and placed them on the bar, then nodded at the bartender, who had been listening to their conversion. He handed Tom a keycard with a symbol on it. Tom frowned in puzzlement. </p><p>The woman slipped the card from his hand. “I know the way,” she said. </p><p>He thought about leaving enough coins to bring the rest of the bottle, but he wanted to save them for a hot meal. If he were really lucky, he’d have enough left over for a hot bath, too. The sonic showers on the cargo vessel only worked half the time, and Tom was getting tired of repairing them. If he were still a gentleman, he’d have the bath first, but he’d been busted down to crewman.</p><p>She led him through the bar and up a staircase along the back wall. He could feel the eyes of the bartender on his back as he climbed them. He didn’t really care what the man’s opinion of him was; had stopped caring about that months ago. As he neared the top step, she turned her head toward him and smiled. “This way,” she said. </p><p>The room was at the end of a narrow corridor. She fitted the card on the reader, and the door swung open. The room was small and dimly lit, clean enough, or so it appeared.  It was sparsely furnished, but there was a bed big enough for two and that was all that mattered. </p><p>She dropped the keycard onto a small table near the door. “You don’t intend to keep your boots on, do you?” Her smile was teasing. </p><p>Tom grinned back and toed them off. Oh yeah, she was planning to rock his socks off! </p><p>“Why don’t we get rid of this, too?” </p><p>She deftly unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it and his vest down his shoulders, taking the opportunity to glide her palms over the muscles on his chest and upper arms. He was still in good shape, his muscles still defined and ‘fleet-strong. It felt more than good to have a woman’s hands on him again. He reached for his purse. “Do you want—?”</p><p>“Later,” she said. She ran her hands over his shoulders and her mouth pulled into a little moue of displeasure. “You’re tight.” She stepped away from him and climbed onto the bed, and sat back onto her calves. “Here,” she patted the mattress, “sit and I’ll rub your shoulders.” </p><p>Usually, he was the one giving the massage. He couldn’t pass up her offer. It was a nice feeling, to know that she wasn’t planning to jump right to the sex. He enjoyed talking to her, he realized. Enjoyed just being with someone who smelled as good as she did. </p><p>“You’re not a labourer, so what do you do all day that makes you so tight?” she asked. </p><p>“I’m a pilot,” he replied. “I sit at the helm of a ship.” Her hands were warm on his bare skin. </p><p>“Oh, well that explains it.” </p><p>She applied firm pressure to his trapezius, stroking from under his shoulder blades up to his neck. He moaned. He wondered for a moment if she was being sarcastic; a job where you sat on your ass all day long likely sounded pretty cushy to someone from one of the frontier planets. But her next words made him realize that she truly understood how difficult it could be to sit at a helm for hours at a time.</p><p>“You can’t get up and move around when you need to, and you have to stretch to reach the instruments. You always have to be alert for anything that comes up on the sensors. It’s not easy.” </p><p>She dug her thumbs into the flesh on either side of his cervical spine and moved them in little circular motions. Tom’s eyes closed at the pleasure of it. Screw the sex, he wanted her hands on his body just like this. He wondered how long she could keep it up. </p><p>Her fingertips glided down his neck and kept going until she reached the bottom of his shoulder blades, then she reversed trajectory. The heels of her hands applied the pressure now: up his spine to his shoulders, then outward to his deltoids. Her soft breasts pressed against his back. </p><p>“No wonder you’re tense,” she murmured in his ear. </p><p>He was lost in the sensation of her hands on his skin manipulating his sore muscles. Heat licked along his spine, and he was starting to feel like he was made entirely of rubber. Of course, that could be a delayed reaction to the whisky. </p><p>“Just relax,” she breathed. </p><p>One of her hands travelled downward toward his ribs while the other moved up his neck and squeezed. It felt so good. Then it didn’t. He felt a brief flash of pain, then numbness, then darkness called to him. </p><p>*</p><p>Tom swam back to consciousness at the sound of pounding on the door. For a moment, he thought the chime must be broken, the comsignal down. He must be late for shift. “Whaaa…?” His eyes shot open, and he sat up abruptly. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. </p><p>The pounding came again, in harmony with the pounding in his head, and with it a voice growled his name, “Paris?!” irritation in its tone. It was Rudy, their other pilot. Fuck, Tom thought, wincing, that booze had quite a kick. He didn’t think he’d been that drunk. “Yeah,” he answered as he struggled to his stockinged feet. He shuffled toward the door and hit the release, mid-pound. Rudy stood there, his diminutive stature belying his gruff attitude. </p><p>“Where the hell ya been, Paris?” he grunted. “Cap’n’s been asking for ya. Ya stayin on this rock, or what?” </p><p>“What?” Tom asked. “It’s morning?” </p><p>“Yeah, it’s morning. Get yer ass in gear if you’re comin with us. Leave ya behind.” </p><p>Tom scrubbed his face with his hands and his neck twinged in protest. He must have slept with his neck at an odd angle last night. He fumbled for his shirt as Rudy stood and watched him. “Dump,” he pronounced succinctly. </p><p>Tom dipped his fingers into the vest pocket on reflex. It was empty. No, that couldn’t be right. He poked them further in, fingertips hitting the seam: still empty, save for his fingers. He stepped back and surveyed the floor, then crossed back to the bed and flapped the blankets, searched under the pillows. No purse. </p><p>Damn. She’d robbed him! </p><p>“Lose somethin?” Rudy asked. </p><p>He should probably be upset, but he found himself smiling. There weren’t many coins left, enough to provide her with a good meal and a bath. Maybe a shot of whisky for her next mark. He <em>should</em> be pissed off that she’d played him for a fool, but he decided her company and the massage had been worth it. The massage. Of course. Catullans, aside from possessing an intriguing colour of hair and magnificent breasts, also possessed the ability to perform a nerve pinch, similar to the one used by Vulcans. He should have known that. He did know that, but he’d been too intrigued by… she hadn’t given him her name, he realized, to remember. He thought she’d been intrigued by him, too. </p><p>He sighed, then he did laugh. She hadn’t <em>rocked</em> him last night; he’d been <em>rolled</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. EIGHT - PITHY</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>#8 - EIGHT - PITHY: </p>
<p>Note: I admit it, it took me a long time to come up with something for this prompt that I found satisfying. Welcome to B’Elanna’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. Thank you to the script writers and story editors and techno-wizards for the details, and to the amazing fans on Memory Alpha for sorting everything out. I relied <em>heavily</em> on them for this one!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Wednesday morning</p>
</div>The pain was blinding. Sharp and stabbing, crippling in its intensity. She was surprised she hadn’t heard the bone snap. She landed—howling—on her ass on the dirt track. She’d easily cleared the waist-high hurdle but had landed wrong, her foot turning inward, pain slicing through her ankle and down her foot, her toes curling with it, plantar fascia spasming and contracting, her calf muscle cramping as if she’d been stuck with a knife. Sweat broke out on her forehead and down her spine; her shirt stuck to her skin. She could feel her foot already starting to swell inside her track shoe.<p>Coach Kirkendall was at her side immediately, pushing her way through the other members of the team who had crowded around her in their concern. She gave B’Elanna a cursory examination, then tut-tutted and insisted on having her carried to Health Services so she could be examined. But B’Elanna already knew what the doctor would say: she’d severely sprained the anterior ligaments on her ankle, and despite the work of a regenerator she had to keep off of it as much as possible. She was benched; no track meet this weekend. She scrubbed the tears from her eyes and bit back a complaint. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway.</p>
<p>**</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Thursday afternoon</p>
</div>She was resting her fucking foot. Seated at her desk with her foot propped on Cal’s chair and elevated by a cushion, she glared at the walking boot that the infirmary doctor had insisted she wear for the next three days. Long enough to get her kicked off the team that was going to Singapore for the extra murals. <em>Booted off</em>. And she would have medalled in the hurdles, too! And was a strong contender for silver in the 500 metres. Damnit!<p>“I need a better word for ‘communicate’.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna glanced toward her roommate; Cal was seated on her bed with a pile of pillows at her back, pecking away at a PADD. B’Elanna frowned. “Just use ‘communicate’.” </p>
<p>“But that’s so… boring,” Cal insisted. “It doesn’t sound intelligent. Besides, I’ve already used it twice.” </p>
<p>“Because you’re writing a paper for your Communications class,” B’Elanna said. She was aware that she sounded snippy, but she didn’t care. She felt snippy. She had every reason to be snippy. Cal stared at her from across the room. “What?” B’Elanna asked. </p>
<p>Cal sat up and tossed her PADD onto the bed. “I’m going to get us some ice cream,” she announced. </p>
<p>“I don’t like ice cream,” B’Elanna frowned. It was too sweet, and it made the roof of her mouth feel funny and usually gave her a sharp headache. </p>
<p>Cal’s face scrunched in disbelief. “Everyone likes ice cream,” she declared. She headed for the door, intending to use a replicator located in the common room at the end of the hallway but stopped short at B’Elanna’s disbelieving roar.</p>
<p>“What the…! I don’t believe this!” </p>
<p>Cal pivoted away from the doorway and rushed over to B’Elanna’s desk. “What? What is it?” </p>
<p>“My term paper. It’s gone!” </p>
<p>“What do you mean, it’s gone?” </p>
<p>“Just that.” B’Elanna stabbed a finger at the screen. “The title is there, but the body of the essay is blank. It just… disappeared.” Frustration welled inside her and she clamped her jaws together; she felt like she might explode. </p>
<p>The screen displayed the class code number and a list of dates and assignments. Under last Tuesday was the title, “Interspecies Protocol: An Introduction to the Socio-Cultural Construction of <em>Human-ness</em>”. In the column headed, Grade, was a zero. “Ummm…” Cal began, “are you sure you turned it in?” </p>
<p>“Of course I turned it in!” B’Elanna snapped. “Two days early. And here, it says it’s now ten days late.” She switched screens to display her messages, and under the previous Sunday was a message confirming that her paper had been successfully uploaded at twenty-three hundred hours.  It also displayed a word count which was substantially higher than eleven. “Why the hell doesn’t this stupid system work properly?” she fumed. “Starfleet churns out engineers and ops specialists and computer programmers, but they can’t manage to create a programme to submit papers that actually works without screwing up all the time!” </p>
<p>“I’m sure Professor Hendricks will let you resubmit it.” </p>
<p>Cal’s tone was soothing, but B’Elanna didn’t want to be soothed. She snorted. “I doubt it. <em>Admiral</em> Hendricks seems to think I have a <em>problem</em> with his lectures. It’s not his lectures I have a problem with, it’s his close-mindedness! His ideas are the only ones that count. If you want to get an A in his class, all you have to do is agree with him!” </p>
<p>“Right,” Cal nodded; she backed up a step. “That was his class—”</p>
<p>“Yes.” The week before the essay was due, he’d opened up the class to a discussion, in order to gauge what the students had learned about the history of the Federation in regards to the Terran slant put on protocol and interpretation of First Contacts. She’d strongly disagreed with the opinions of the majority of the students, to the point where she’d… kicked her chair halfway across the room. </p>
<p>He’d filed an official complaint about her ungentlemanly behaviour, which, in her <em>opinion</em> showed exactly how much <i>contact</i> he’d had with Klingons, and she’d had to withstand a disciplinary hearing—her forth in fourteen months—in front of Admiral Hahn, the Superintendent of the Academy. She’d almost been suspended. Again. It pissed her off all over again just thinking about it. </p>
<p>“Look,” Cal dropped a hand to her shoulder and gave her a little shove, “I’m sure if you submit a ticket to the IT department, and message Hendriks and your advisor, they’ll understand. It’s not the first time Get*Em*In has eaten an assignment.” </p>
<p>“Forget it,” B’Elanna muttered. “I’m failing the class, anyway. And he definitely wouldn’t have liked what I wrote.” Her mouth twitched in a smile. “I really doubt that paper would have improved my grade.” </p>
<p>Cal studied her for a moment, her mouth twisted into a rueful pout, then crossed her arms. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re right; ice cream won’t cut it. You need scotch.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna just snorted.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Friday evening</p>
</div>Cal appeared at B’Elanna’s elbow and grinned at her. She tugged the PADD out of her hand and held it out of reach, over B’Elanna’s head. “Come on, B’Elanna,” she said, “Take a break and come to <i>The Warp Core</i> with me. You know that stuff inside out.”<p>B’Elanna rolled her eyes. “You’re not supposed to turn people inside-out; that’s the whole point of studying the operations textbook.” </p>
<p><i>The Warp Core</i> was the on-campus nightclub, usually populated by cadets on the command track, like Cal, though it hosted its fair share of pilots. B’Elanna had allowed her friend to drag her there a few times but dancing in a loud, dark, crowded space wasn’t her thing. Right now, she’d prefer the soft lights and the quiet of the near-deserted student library.</p>
<p>She couldn’t resist the joke, though the idea of a transporter malfunction wasn’t in the least bit funny. </p>
<p>“We’ve had transporters for a hundred and fifty years,” Cal said, “tell me the last time someone got splinched.” </p>
<p>“<em>Splinched?</em>” B’Elanna sat up straight and snatched her PADD out of Cal’s slack grip. She quickly thumbed to the index of terms: Foriegn Object Contamination, Phasing, Splicing, Splitting, Time Travel… no splinching. Had she dozed off during a lecture and missed it? Somehow missed an assigned reading? “What the hell is splinching?” she demanded. She jumped to the chapter on Unintended Destinations in case it was hidden in a footnote.</p>
<p>“It’s…” Cal snorted. “When you transport from one place to another but part of your body is left behind.” She stared stoically at B’Elanna for a few moments, then broke into a grin as she observed the horror that showed in B’Elanna’s eyes. “Relax. It’s from a holodeck series I played as a kid. Not real. I think. I hope.” </p>
<p>“Holodeck?” B’Elanna sighed. Leave it Cal to make nothing sound like an emergency and, well, frankly, an emergency sound like nothing. The truth was, B’Elanna did need to study if she had a hope in hell of getting better than a C+ in the Transporter Theory midterm tomorrow. She knew how it worked, understood the tech. Hell, she could probably take one apart and put it back together, blindfolded. Not that she would ever try. It was the other stuff, the details: the names and dates and hows and whys of the various accidents, thankfully few and far between, that had befallen Starfleet officers and civilians alike over the last <em>two hundred and twenty-seven</em> years that B’Elanna couldn’t seem to sort out in her head. She couldn’t very well answer every question with ‘Emory Erickson’. </p>
<p>“Are you still going to write your essay question on your idea for a skeletal mineral lock?” </p>
<p>“Yes. Of course. It’ll work, I’m certain of it. Chapman just doesn’t have any imagination.” </p>
<p>“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Cal shrugged elaborately. “But I’d think you’d end up transporting a skeleton and leaving all the squishy, gooey bits behind. The ultimate splinch!” She grinned at the expression on B’Elanna’s face.</p>
<p>B’Elanna shuddered at the thought. Cal tilted her head and pointed at the stack of PADDs on B’Elanna’s desk. “Are you sure you don’t want to toss that out an airlock and come have some fun?” </p>
<p>“In this?” B’Elanna pointed to the boot cast on her foot. </p>
<p>“Your loss. Remember, it’s not the things you do that you regret, it’s the opportunities that you miss.” Cal turned on her heel and tossed, “Don’t wait up; I plan to have fun tonight,” over her shoulder. </p>
<p>****</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Saturday, evening</p>
</div><em>...Monday you can fall apart</em><br/><em>Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart...</em><p>She could feel the rumble from the lower bass tones of the music in her belly, shaking her organs and making the vertebrae in her spine vibrate. She was certain, if she put her glass on the bartop, that the ice in her scotch would rattle. Cal had tried to talk her into getting a sweet and fruity blue concoction with a little paper umbrella in it, along with several spears of fruit, but she’d stood her ground on her drink. It was the one experience that Max had shown her that she didn’t now regret: the smooth, smokey taste of a good scotch. </p>
<p>Which this wasn’t. </p>
<p>
  <em>...Thursday I don’t care about you...</em>
</p>
<p>She’d caved to Cal’s insistence that she needed a night out after her awful week, and had allowed herself to be dragged along to The Warp Core to celebrate the fact that her midterm for Chapman was done. She felt comfortable that she’d get that needed C, and, if he bought her skeletal-lock argument, she might even have pulled off a B-. Certainly worth that celebratory drink. She just would have preferred that it was back in their dorm room rather than in this cacophonous nightclub. But Cal, true to her desire, was flailing around on the elevated dance floor, and didn’t look like she’d be ready to leave any time soon. </p>
<p><em>...It’s Friday, I’m in...</em> </p>
<p>“Saturday! I’m in looovvve. Hel-lo, beautiful.” </p>
<p>He had dark hair and eyes that reminded her of Max, though he was a half a head taller, and he wore the same self-satisfied smile. He was dressed in a garishly coloured collared shirt, and his eyes dipped downward to give her the once over. Her lips compressed into a firm line. He was the second jerk who had attempted to hit on her tonight and she was done. She cut him off before he could get into full Asshole Mode.</p>
<p>“Goodbye.” Pig, she muttered under her breath. She abandoned her drink on the counter, it was either that or pour it over his head, and headed for the door.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he called after her, “wait.”</p>
<p>
  <em>...Saturday, wait!</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And Sunday always comes too late…</em>
</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Sunday morning</p>
</div>She was jogging gently, almost skimming over the track, going easy on her ankle and enjoying the weak fall sunshine and the cool morning air. No high jumps or hurdles today. She was trying to let the irritations of the previous week roll off of her, as if the gentle breeze she was creating by running could carry it all away.<p>She reviewed the warp engine schematics in her head as she ran; her exam was coming up, and they’d likely have to draw and label a diagram as well as list and define the components. Cal had once told her that it was easier to learn text put to music than not, so she tried to make it as sing-songy as possible given the metre, but it wasn’t easy. </p>
<p>
  <em>The dilithium crystal articulation frame is connected to the matter/antimatter reaction chamber. The matter/antimatter reaction chamber is connected to the secondary plasma conduit. The secondary plasma conduit is connected to the warp field coils. The warp coils are connected to the power transfer conduits. The power transfer conduits are connected to the electroplasma system.  The EPS is con—</em>
</p>
<p>“<em>beylana</em>! Wait up.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna slowed and turned at the sound of her name. Kerri Pelo, one of the other members of the track team jogged up beside her. Kerri was on the Command pathway, with an interest in Interspecies Relations and First Contact. She always went out of her way to pronounce everyone’s name correctly, and learn about their planet of origin. B’Elanna found it a little disconcerting to hear the syllables of her name spoken the way her mother said them. </p>
<p>“How’s your ankle?” Pelo asked.</p>
<p>...she was so not in the mood for idle chit chat. “It’s fine,” she said. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry you missed the meet. I’m certain you would have placed in the 500 metres. You’re really fast.” </p>
<p>They were walking the track now, side by side, and B’Elanna glanced at her, wondering why she’d felt the need to go out of her way to stop her mid workout. Kerri’s eyes flicked to B’Elanna’s and she flashed her a nervous grin. “What?” B’Elanna asked.</p>
<p>“Umm… I’m not sure if I should tell you this or not, but you’re going to find out soon enough anyway. Probably.” Her features crinkled as she shot B’Elanna a pitying smile. </p>
<p>B’Elanna stifled a sigh. “What?” She was losing patience. </p>
<p>“It’s… Max. He’s dating Jhynn Sh’vfithrar.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna abruptly stopped walking. “I thought he was quitting the Academy,” she said. The comment had slipped out, and she clamped her mouth shut; she didn’t want to give the impression that she cared what Max was doing because she didn’t. </p>
<p>Kerri didn’t seem to notice her slip. “I guess not. Tora D’rul saw them in the commissary last night. They looked pretty cozy.” </p>
<p>‘Jenn’ was a high jumper on the team. No one could pronounce her name properly—except Kerri—and since she said she didn’t care, most of them didn’t even try. They ran the awkward syllables together and called her, Jennifer. She was… lovely. Tall and attractive, with perfect skin the palest shade of aqua, and long thick hair that looked as pretty in a sweaty, messy, post-training ponytail, as it did swept back in a regulation bun. But she was also smart, funny, a talented athlete, and… nice. Really, genuinely nice. Like Kerri. </p>
<p>“Oh,” B’Elanna said again. “Well, that’s…” She shuffled in the dirt, centering her weight first on one foot then the other. She lifted her chin. “Why do you think I would care who Max is dating?” She almost spat the words. </p>
<p>“It’s just, you know,” Kerri shrugged, “he’ll be hanging around the track. Like he did when you guys were a couple,” she explained. “But I’m sure if you, if you thought you and Max might get back together, if, you know, you still have feelings for him,” one corner of her mouth twitched, “Jhynn would step aside. She’d get out of the way.”</p>
<p>Frustration welled inside B’Elanna and she huffed a breath through her nose. She had nothing to say to that. At all. But, knowing Kerri, she’d have to come up with something. “I have zero interest in what Max does or who he spends his time with,” she finally said, more to fill the sudden conversational void than because she believed it. “And it’s not like I don’t see him around campus,” she snapped. </p>
<p>But here—the track—was <em>her</em> space. Hers, not his! </p>
<p>“Well, that’s great, beylana!” Kerri grinned, delight practically radiating from her. “I was afraid you’d be, you know, upset, but it’s great that you guys can be friends and you’re not, you know, angry about it.” She rolled her eyes and her face contorted into a strained smile. “I’ve got to get to Interspecies Protocol. We’re starting the unit on Andorians. ‘Later!” </p>
<p>Kerri jogged off back toward C building, but B’Elanna had already turned away from her. “Yeah. That’s just great,” she muttered. </p>
<p>******</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Monday</p>
</div>“<em>Professor Chapman, I’m sorry to interrupt your class.</em>”<p>The voice of Superintendent Hahn’s secretary came over the intercom. Chapman paused mid-lecture, and lifted his head toward the ceiling. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” </p>
<p>“<em>I need one of your students, Cadet Bay’Lanna Torres. Would she be there, by any chance</em>?”</p>
<p>All eyes turned toward her, and B’Elanna fought the urge to shrink into her chair. Now what? she wondered. What the hell could be so urgent that the Superintendent of the school would call her out of class? She didn’t have long to wait to find out.</p>
<p>“<em>We have a subspace communication for her,</em>” the Admiral’s secretary went on, “<em>from her mother.</em>” </p>
<p>Her mother?! B’Elanna’s mouth dropped open but she didn’t make a sound. Why would her mother be calling from Kessik IV? Had something happened? Something terrible? Had someone died? Unless… she wasn’t on Kessik. Unless she’d decided to visit Earth like she’d threatened last summer. B’Elanna hadn’t come home last break, preferring to stay on campus to take on extra credits to the lengthy journey back to the Beta Quadrant. Her mother hadn’t been pleased about her decision and had let her know.</p>
<p>“<em>Cadet Torres?</em>” The Lieutenant addressed her directly.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir?” Even though he couldn’t see her, she climbed out of her chair and stood at attention.</p>
<p>“<em>You’ll have to use the conn in the Administration Building.</em>” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” she answered. She knew that already; you couldn’t receive a call from the Beta Quadrant via the comp link in your quarters. “I’ll be right there, sir,” she said. Class was almost over and she figured she wouldn’t get back before it ended, so she grabbed her bag and headed toward the door. Glancing back, she noted the sour expression on Chapman’s face. Well, that was his problem. She couldn’t refuse a call from halfway across the galaxy. Especially when the Superintendent’s office called her down to accept it. </p>
<p>Worry played in her mind as she crossed the quad. Was her mother sick? None of her grandparents were still alive so it couldn’t be them and besides, she wouldn’t get news of her father’s family via her mother, anyway. She stopped dead in her tracks as a new thought struck her: maybe her father had contacted her mother. Maybe he wanted to speak to her, to see her. She moved toward the Admin Building at a much slower pace than before. What would she say to him after all these years? What would he say to her? </p>
<p>She was led into a private room and seated at a compact desk that had room for the computer terminal and a mug of coffee, and not much else. She didn’t have the coffee, but wished she had something stronger. She took a breath, then reached out and pressed the icon on the pad to link her terminal to the call. Her mother’s face—proud and unsmiling—appeared on the screen, clear enough to be sitting in the next chair. She looked… the same. B’Elanna didn’t know what she’d expected, but she hadn’t seen her mother in over a year and a half so she’d thought <em>something</em> about her would have changed. </p>
<p>“Mother.” </p>
<p>“<em>beylana</em>,” mI’ral answered. “<em>So, your Starfleet hasn’t swallowed you whole, after all.</em>” </p>
<p>“No. I…” Was that her mother’s way of complaining that she hadn’t called or written in a while? “I’ve been busy with my classes.” Year two was typically the year where students specialized, and, though they wouldn’t admit it even when asked, the year when the Academy started to weed out the cadets who couldn't cut it. She’d heard that passing second year was tougher than year four and graduating. “Is something wrong? Has something happened?” </p>
<p>mI’ral smiled slightly even as her eyebrows came together in a frown. “<em>Does a catastrophe have to have happened for a mother to speak with her daughter?</em>” she asked. </p>
<p>B’Elanna sighed. “Of course not; I was just wondering why you called.” She was keenly aware that while receiving a message or even the occasional on-campus visit from a parent was hardly unusual for a cadet, being pulled out of class to take a com call from a parent in the Beta Quadrant was. Would her mother never stop being an embarrassment, B’Elanna wondered, never stop drawing attention to her by doing the wrong thing at the wrong time? </p>
<p>Her classmates would ask her about the call, of course, and the ones who didn’t would still speculate on what her <em>Klingon</em> mother had to tell her that was so important that the Superintendent's office would become involved. She was under no illusions that her little display of temper in Hendrick’s class last week hadn’t made the rounds of gossip that seemed to fuel second-year cadets like strong coffee. Half the class probably thought she was about to be suspended, or worse. </p>
<p>They probably thought her mother had been contacted—maybe she had been—and was laying down the law after bargaining with Superintendent Hahn to keep B’Elanna in the school! Showed what they knew: her mother had been against her attending the Academy from the start. She’d probably be thrilled if B’Elanna was kicked out: any chance to say, ‘I told you so’, to rub home the fact that Klingons weren’t suited for a life in the strict, repressed confines of Starfleet protocol. The call was being monitored, and she hated the idea that she might be about to receive a reprimand for her behaviour not being <em>honourable</em> enough to suit her fully Klingon mother.</p>
<p>“<em>I’ve resigned my place at the mining consortium. I am leaving Kessik IV.</em>” </p>
<p>B’Elanna hadn’t been expecting that, and her mother’s words momentarily stunned her into silence. “You… what?” A geologist, her mother had worked for a mining company on Kessik for as long as B’Elanna could remember. They’d stayed on at the small colony after B’Elanna’s father had left them and, aside from a six-month term of extended leave when her mother had taken her to Boreth to read the scrolls and immerse her in the legends of Kahless, it was the only job B’Elanna could remember her mother having; the only place they had ever lived. The idea that she would quit it all and leave the colony world was… wrong somehow. Too final. </p>
<p>“<em>My shuttle leaves in two days.</em>”</p>
<p>“Where are you going?” She assumed her mother would be heading to <i>Qo’noS</i>, to be with her extended family.</p>
<p>“<em>To Boreth. I have given up my current lodgings,</em>” mI’ral continued.</p>
<p>It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but B’Elanna was shocked by the note of finality in her mother’s voice. “You’re going to <em>move</em> there?” she asked.</p>
<p> An image of her childhood home flashed in B’Elanna’s mind. It was ‘company housing’: small, boxy, dingy, and adorned only with Klingon memorabilia and her mother’s shrine to Kahless. Two years ago, she couldn’t wait to get away from it and Kessik. Her high school years had dragged, and the wait to hear if she’d been accepted into the Academy after she’d written her entrance exam—against her mother’s advice and wishes—had been interminable. </p>
<p>“<em>The shuttle is small, and my lodgings on Boreth will not permit me to bring more than a few items of clothing. What do you want done with your possessions?</em>” she asked. </p>
<p>“My…” Her <em>stuff</em>. All of the things that she’d left in her room when she’d hopped that transport on the first leg of her journey to Sol sector and the Academy. Her school medals from the science fairs and years of track meets. The teddy bear that her abuela had given her when she was a baby. At least she’d brought Toby with her… </p>
<p>They’d argued the day before she’d left for Earth, when mI’ral had pressed her to reconsider her decision to join Starfleet, stating that a Klingon would have a hard time finding a home among so many humans. Her mother had attempted to make up with her afterward. B’Elanna had still been packing when mI’ral had knocked on her bedroom door and asked to come in. She hadn’t wanted to talk to her, but she knew that refusing her admittance would be petty and childish; not the way to exhibit to her mother that she was mature enough to make her own decisions about her future.</p>
<p>Her mother had brought her a banner with their family crest to decorate her dorm room. It was the very last thing she’d wanted to bring with her to Earth: something that advertised her other-ness. It had been like a flame to an accelerant. B’Elanna had snapped at her, and said that she couldn’t wait to get away… She’d left the banner, along with the other items her mother had believed a good <em>Daughter of qeylIS</em> would require, dumped in a pile on her bed when she’d left their house for the last time. Of course, at the time, she hadn’t realized that it really would be the last time. </p>
<p>“<em>Should I put your possessions into storage?</em> her mother prompted. “<em>Or would like them shipped to you?</em>”</p>
<p>B’Elanna shook her head. “I don’t know.” She didn’t need or want any of her old clothing. She’d kept a few toys from her childhood that she would hate to lose, but she certainly didn’t have room for any of them in the quarters she shared with Cal. “I guess you could store them?” But when would she ever go back to Kessik if her mother weren’t there?</p>
<p>mI’ral nodded. “<em>I will make the arrangements before I leave. And is there nothing you want me to send to you? What about the scroll? Your ghojmeH taj?</em>” </p>
<p>Anger welled inside her. It wasn’t really her mother’s fault that she’d stuck out like a...a sprained ankle at the Academy, but mI’ral made a handy outlet for her ire. “I don’t think it’ll go with the decor,” she snapped. She could just imagine it: Cal coming back to their dorm room to find Klingon candles on every flat surface, incense burning, and a shrine to qeylIS beside her comconsole. She almost laughed. </p>
<p>When would her mother get it that she didn’t want any part of that stuff?! God, she’d wanted nothing to do with any of it. What her mother seemed to refuse to understand was that B’Elanna had left home to get away from her constant harping about Klingon customs and honour! She was sick of hearing about it. She’d just wanted to be normal; like everyone else… But a year and a half at the Academy had taught her that she wasn’t like everyone else, and that no matter how hard she tried to ignore her Klingon half, she still didn’t fit in. </p>
<p>Her jaw firmed as she bit back a wave of frustration at her mother. She never, ever seemed to get it. She couldn’t be that obtuse! She just wanted to be right. </p>
<p>“Look, I’m in the middle of midterm exams, and I had to leave my Engineering Systems class to take this call, so if that’s all you needed to tell me, I should get back.”</p>
<p>“<em>I have many things to tell you, beylana, but you refuse to listen.</em>”</p>
<p>“I have to go.” B’Elanna said, curtly. Her tone was flat. There was no point in provoking an argument with her mother that neither of them would win.</p>
<p>“<em>I will contact you when I have made arrangements,</em>” Miral said. </p>
<p>“Fine. You can just…” she paused a moment, “send a letter. You don’t need to call.” </p>
<p>“<em>As you wish.</em>” </p>
<p>“‘bye.” </p>
<p>She didn’t wait for her mother’s reply before she leaned forward and cut their connection. She thanked the ensign at the desk outside the comm room, and headed outside. If she hurried, she could catch the last ten minutes of Chapman’s class. She didn’t bother.</p>
<p>*******</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Tuesday afternoon</p>
</div>“ARRRHHHH!” B’Elanna let out a roar of frustration, lashing out at the remains of the now broken biodome container that had, until thirty seconds ago, held her midterm lab assignment. She struck it with the flat of her fist and it sailed off of the lab bench and hit the floor spinning, then skittered under Cal’s chair. She blew a breath and grimaced, trying to grab ahold of her temper.<p>The room filled with a shocked silence.</p>
<p>She hadn’t really been paying attention to where her elbows were in space, true. Her mind had been replaying the conversation with her mother and, as usual, she wished she’d said more. There were a few things she wanted, after all. The book of fairy tales with illustrations of dragons and poor peasant girls—who were actually mages or orphaned princesses—that her father used to read to her when she was little. The working hover-drone that had won her first place in her grade three science fair. Her teddy bear. So the accident, when it happened, took her completely by surprise. </p>
<p>“Congratulations, Mister Torres,” her professor’s words broke the shocked silence in the room. “You’ve just ended countless civilizations before they could begin. You’ve preemptively killed hundreds of billions of pre-sentient life forms. Imagine what they could have contributed to the universe if left unmolested.” </p>
<p>Someone snickered. </p>
<p>She jerked her sodden uniform away from her chest as she backed away from her lab bench and wiped a gob of goo from her chin. It was a good thing the biomatter wasn’t caustic. The bioplasm was oddly cold and slick. A gelatinous mass of greys and blues and sulphuric yellow, it certainly looked sticky, and she’d assumed, in the few instances she’d thought about it at all, that it would be warm. It slid off her uniform and pooled on the floor, creating a mess of far greater mass than had been in the bio-chamber. It was probably a result of an exothermic reaction when the microbes in her ‘colony’ mixed with the oxygen in the air, but she couldn’t rely on her own analysis; she was failing biochemistry. Biology had never really interested her anyway.</p>
<p>Cal leaned toward her and murmured, “Careful, you don’t want to get that on your skin, you might mutate into a lizard or something.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna snorted. </p>
<p>“Perhaps you’d like to be excused to shower and change, Cadet,” Doctor Venkman suggested. “I’ll call janitorial services to clean that up. The rest of us, I think, can call it a day.” </p>
<p>Cal trailed behind her as she navigated the crowded hallway, heading toward their dorm room. “You should have seen your face,” she laughed. </p>
<p>“I’ll have to make it up next term,” B’Elanna said, anger and disappointment still warring inside her. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream with rage. “I was hoping to take Quantum Warp Theory but they won’t let me take a 3000 level course if I don’t have my compulsories.”</p>
<p>“Do you think it’ll keep on growing,” Cal asked, amusement obvious in her voice. “It might take over the lab, get into the ventilation system and multiply. If you’ve just created a new lifeform, you’ll get an A+.” </p>
<p>“It’s not funny,” B’Elanna muttered. </p>
<p>“Oh, come on,” Cal slung an arm around her shoulder and hip checked her, and B’Elanna stumbled slightly. “It was pretty funny.”</p>
<p>“You don’t understand,” B’Elanna shrugged out from under her arm. “My grade in Chapman’s class is too low for me to be considered for that advanced course right now, and since I’ve probably just failed Biochem, my entire year is ruined. It was all a waste of time.”</p>
<p>“B’Elanna, come on. It was one lab accident—” </p>
<p>She shook her head. “My mother was right all along; I don’t belong here.” </p>
<p>Cal frowned. “You belong anywhere you decide you belong. If people won’t make a space for you, make that space yourself. IDIC, remember?” </p>
<p>B’Elanna sighed. “I’m not you. And I’m sure as hell not Vulcan.” Would that she were: calmly cool and reserved, distanced. Confident in her superiority. She felt, instead, like an orphaned peasant girl. “I can’t… magically fit in somewhere.” People might admire her prowess in sports, or envy her natural mathematical abilities, but they didn’t instinctively <em>like</em> her the way they did Cal. All her school life her teachers had complained that she didn’t try hard enough to get along, to fit in. But it wasn’t her, she realized, it was the places. She was the proverbial square peg, and Starfleet was the round hole. Her mother was right. She would never fit in, not unless she made herself so small, so diminished, that she wasn’t herself anymore. She wanted to sob, or laugh at her own stupidity for even trying.</p>
<p>She turned and walked quickly away from her one real friend at the Academy. </p>
<p>“B’Elanna, where are you going?” Cal called after her. </p>
<p>“Anywhere but here,” she muttered.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Tuesday, 2354 hours</p>
  <p></p>
  <div class="center"><p>B’Elanna hit the icon to send her message to the Registrar’s office, then switched off her computer. She looked around the small room, her gaze lingering for a moment on the stack of PADDs that she’d piled on the desk. There was nothing there that she wanted. She spied Toby balanced on top of the monitor and picked him up; his fur was coarse and matted with age, but he smelled the same as he had when she was younger: like her childhood, like home. </p>
<p>She tucked him into her duffle bag and glanced at Cal, sleeping soundly in her bunk. She could sleep through a Borg attack, B’Elanna thought. Her mouth twitched at that. She should wake her, say goodbye, but… She walked out the door and didn’t look back. </p>
<p>********</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Wednesday</p></div>To: Admiral Hahn, Office of the Superintendent, Starfleet Academy<br/>From: Cadet B’Elanna Torres #2364-00474-747<p><em>This was just a bad idea. I quit.</em></p>
<p>*********</p>
<p><em>go on, go on and walk away</em><br/><em>go on, go on your choice is made</em><br/><em>go on, go on and disappear</em><br/><em>go on, go on, away from here.</em></p>
<p>Songwriters: Boris Williams / Porl Thompson / Perry Bamonte / Robert James Smith / Simon Johnathon Gallup<br/>Friday I'm In Love lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group</p></div>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. ILLNESS - PEPSI</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once they’d been married and moved all of their belongings into their new quarters, there hadn’t been room for it. Especially now, with all the things they’d replicated for the baby, they didn’t have the room. Well, they <em>did</em> but he hadn’t used it in months, and more often than not it was a resting place for coats, or shirts, or the lap blanket that B’Elanna had brought from her quarters. Tom wasn’t really sorry to see it go when Neelix had asked if he still had it, along with the 45s; it held bad memories for him anyway. </p>
<p>Neelix had happily supervised as a couple of crewmen used anti-grav clips to move the jukebox out of their quarters, clearing the corridor and shooing away anyone who might cross their path from deck three to the messhall. He’d installed it near the viewports, in pride of place beside the couches, and stocked it with a selection of music from Talax, as well as a few tunes from every other homeworld represented by <em>Voyager’s</em> crew. Tom and B’Elanna had often walked into the mess anticipating a quiet breakfast, only to be confronted by Vulcan chanting or—on the other end of the musical spectrum—Klingon rock. </p>
<p>Tom had already downed his peanut butter toast and a mug of replicated coffee while B’Elanna was showering and dressing. She’d stated that she wanted breakfast in the mess this morning. She was approaching the end of the pregnancy and her appetite showed no signs of waning. Lately, four slices of toast and a bowl of Talaxian <em>gaborsti</em> stew was just an appetizer. </p>
<p>“Ready?” B’Elanna sailed out of the bathroom on a trajectory for the door. She didn’t slow down or waver, and Tom had to grab his uniform jacket from the back of a chair, jamming his arms into it as he walked. He almost lost sight of her at the bend in the corridor. Next time, he’d be dressed and ready. </p>
<p>“Good morning!” B’Elanna smiled a greeting at Culhane as he stepped off the turbolift. </p>
<p>“You’re chipper this morning,” Tom noted. He still felt groggy. </p>
<p>She shrugged. “Just looking forward to the day. I’m planning a surprise diagnostic on the warp matrix.” </p>
<p>Tom blinked. “The whole thing?” </p>
<p>“If there’s a problem, I want to catch it before something breaks down. Messhall,” she ordered the computer.</p>
<p>“Do you think you’ll be late tonight, then?” He was looking forward to cuddling on the couch and watching a movie with her, her choice. A quiet evening at home, with lots of snacks, before the baby came and they couldn’t do that sort of thing anymore.</p>
<p>The doors closed and Tom noticed a brightly coloured piece of paper fastened to them. There was a photo of his jukebox, and musical notes, along with the words, <em>Sock Jump TONIGHT! Messhall 1700-0200.</em></p>
<p>“What the…?” Tom said. </p>
<p>“What’s a sock jump?” B’Elanna asked. </p>
<p>Tom frowned. “It’s either a dance, or an athletic competition.” They had to go, of course. Neelix would be crushed if they didn’t. His plans for the evening just went up in smoke. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Lunch in the mess was a rushed affair. Neelix shovelled out bowls of questionable stew and encouraged people to eat quickly, then leave. He was beaming, bubbling with barely suppressed excitement, obviously anxious to have the mess clear so he could begin preparations for the dance tonight. No one had had the heart to correct his jargon. </p>
<p>The posters had littered <em>Voyager’s</em> corridors and turbolifts. There was even one on the bridge, adhered to the bulkhead next to the doors to Janeway’s ready room. It looked curiously cheerful juxtaposed to Tuvox’ bland expression. Tom figured that was the only reason why the captain had allowed it to stay. </p>
<p>They’d met Harry for breakfast, and Neelix had greeted them all with his usual warm enthusiasm. He’d told them about the party, and had hinted that he’d spent weeks researching and planning it. He’d admitted that the captain had been in on it, and was <em>strongly advising</em> the command crew to set the example and attend. Tom’s eyes had caught B’Elanna’s across the table as she frowned. Harry, who appeared almost more excited than Neelix at the prospect of an evening soiree, made the mistake of asking Neelix if costumes were required (ignorance is uniforms), and Neelix launched into a lecture about letterman sweaters and poodle skirts. Tom had matched B’Elanna’s pucker. </p>
<p>After Neelix had left to check on his steeping pot of hot <em>tranya</em>, Tom had sighed. Since they’d made alliances with several species to escape that Void a few months ago, the technology they’d gained had almost put an end to replicator rations. They couldn’t use that as an excuse to not dress for the party. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“I look like an idiot.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna was staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror in their closet. As warned, she’d been busy in engineering all day, and it had fallen on Tom to replicate their costumes. Her response to his query if she had any preferences, ‘whatever’, had left him flat, but he’d used the time between his half shift on the bridge and a less than hectic shift in sickbay to do a little research of his own. He’d come up with the best thing he could, given the circumstances. </p>
<p>He’d taken full advantage of their pregnancy-increased ration account and replicated her a dress with a full circle skirt. He’d made sure the fabric was light. And stretchy. True to the era, he’d added a fluffy white appliqued silhouette of a poodle complete with a red, rhinestone-embellished collar and looping leash. The bodice was designed like a blouse, with a button down placket and rounded collar, and short cuffed sleeves that stopped just above her elbow. He’d foregone the wide belt. </p>
<p>Her hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, tied with a scarf. She looked adorable, if a little...unwieldy, right down to her cuffed white socks and saddle shoes. Tom came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders and grinned. She frowned. </p>
<p>“Why couldn’t I wear blue jeans and a tee shirt?” she asked? </p>
<p>Tom had pulled his old pair of denim jeans from the back of the closet and cuffed them. To hide the fact that his ankles were now in view, he’d replicated a new pair of black leather motorcycle boots. He’d added a classic white tee shirt from his drawer, and a black leather, metal-studded motorcycle jacket. The back and sides of his hair were slicked back with <em>Brylcreem</em>, a greasy, aromatic styling product from the era, and he’d done his best to pull the short front pieces into a curl. Really, he didn’t have much hair up top anymore, and the style made him look like he had considerably less. Still, he looked good. And he felt good. This might become his default, off duty style of dress. </p>
<p>Tom dropped a hand to B’Elanna’s burgeoning belly and gave it a rub. “You look gorgeous,” he said.</p>
<p>“The dog looks stupid.” </p>
<p>Tom frowned in mock hurt. “It’s classic!” he said. “As american as apple pie and… and… dogs.” </p>
<p>“There’s enough fabric here for a whole herd of dogs,” she sniffed. “Let’s just get this over with,” she said.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The music hit them as they walked through the mess doors, a simple <em>bumpa-dumpa bumpa-dumpa</em> repetitive beat that made Tom smile. </p>
<p>
  <em>Twist! Twist!</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Twist! Twist!</em>
</p>
<p>Neelix had strung streamers and long ropes of tiny lights criss-crossing the ceiling. He’d cleared the floor of tables, and turned the couches so they were directly under the viewport. There were boxes of popcorn and cones of spun sugar on the serving counter, as well as a large bowl of pink punch and a stack of small, glass cups with handles too small for Tom to get a finger through. </p>
<p>The mess was already crowded with costumed people standing in groups sipping punch and some people dancing. Chell, in a simple shirt, blue jeans, and his old Maquis boots, was swinging a full-skirted Tricia Jenkins into the air. He plopped her back on her feet, and she spun into his arms. He dipped her low enough for her hair to brush the floor. </p>
<p>Tom glanced at B’Elanna to find her staring at him, one eyebrow raised. His gaze dropped to her belly. “Maybe next dance party?” she suggested.</p>
<p>“Hey, Tom, B’Elanna.” Harry found them through the throng of bodies. “Whaddya think?” He was dressed in a classic Letterman sweater with stripes on the sleeves and a large V on his upper left chest. He was wearing a pair of wide legged, cuffed tan pants, and a pair of blue suede penny loafers, complete with penny. </p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah, daddy's just sleepin'</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And mama ain't around</em>
</p>
<p>“You look…” B’Elanna’s mouth twitched. </p>
<p>“Great!” Tom supplied. He clapped his pal on the shoulder and peered at the back of Harry’s head. Harry had slicked his hair back from his forehead, and combed the sides to meet in the centre back of his head in a classic ‘duck’s ass’. It was an upmarket version of his Buster Kincaid style. “Brylcreem?” Tom asked?</p>
<p>“Dapper Dan,” Harry replied. </p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah, daddy's just sleepin'</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And mama ain't around</em>
</p>
<p>Tom nodded. </p>
<p>“There’s going to be food later,” Harry told them. “Neelix said something about hamburgers and french fries.” </p>
<p>“Can’t wait,” Tom replied. </p>
<p>“Well, I’m going to see if Jenny wants to dance,” Harry said. “See you later.” </p>
<p>Tom waved him off.</p>
<p>
  <em>We're gonna twisty, twisty, twisty</em>
  <br/>
  <em>'Til we tear the house down</em>
</p>
<p>“Come on, baby,” Tom turned to B’Elanna and offered her his hand. “Let’s dance.” </p>
<p>She eyed the twirling, gyrating Chell and Jenkins. “I don’t know how,” she tried.</p>
<p>He tugged her onto the dance floor. “I’ll show you; it goes like this.” </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Billy Telfer was the first person to complain about an upset stomach. Tom hadn’t put much stock in it, since he always had some malady or other, and accused him of overindulging in the burgers and fries. He sent him to sickbay for an antiemetic. Chell was next, which didn’t surprise him either; despite their renowned digestive system, there were a few things that Bolians shouldn’t eat. He was followed quickly by Ayala, Chapman, Harry, and Naomi Wildman. Even the captain was looking a little green around the gills by then.</p>
<p>B’Elanna was on her second Ledosian-banana split with a malted milk chaser when Tom urged her to go to sickbay for a preemptive check. “It might hit you later,” he cajoled. “After it reaches your second stomach.” </p>
<p>In total, thirty of the crew had been felled by a mystery illness: nausea, cramping, diarrhea. It was a simple enough fix with a hypo and water to rehydrate them, but the Doctor was determined to get to the… bottom of the problem. </p>
<p>“You didn’t use real meat in the hamburgers, did you? Nothing you picked up on our last trading stop? No rodents that you captured while we were foraging on that moon in the Uxal sector?”</p>
<p>“No, I swear.” Neelix shook his head. “I don’t understand it.” He turned toward Janeway, his expression one of remorse and confusion. “It rather hurt me to do it, but there simply wasn’t time to skin an animal and age it properly.”</p>
<p>Tom’s own stomach did a little flip-flop. Neelix glanced at him apologetically. “And I do know how most of the crew feels about real meat, so I replicated the hamburgers.”</p>
<p>“Well then, unless we’ve had a replicator malfunction, we can cross that off our list.”</p>
<p>“I replicated the pep<em>see</em> and the vanilla ice cream for the floats,” Neelix said, “but I did make the root beer myself. It took three weeks to brew! Of course, it took the last of the leeola root, but they were the only tubers we had in storage. It was a toss up between using them for that or the ice cream.” </p>
<p>He smiled. Tom’s lip curled. He was glad he’d chosen the Pepsi, even though it had been sweet enough that he’d only had half of the soda and ice cream concoction. He’d given his cherry to B’Elanna.</p>
<p>“Three weeks?” </p>
<p>“Yes. It needed to ferment. For the bubbles,” Neelix explained. “And to get that earthy taste.” </p>
<p>“You allowed the leeola root to ferment for three weeks?” the Doctor asked.</p>
<p>Neelix nodded. “Of course, I had to skim off the scum every few days. Though, in the last few days I was a <em>little</em> busy with the other preparations. Luckily, it had firmed up by then and the mould growth rather solidified it, so it was easy to peel off. I set it aside. I was planning to dice it and use it to make—”</p>
<p>“I need to see it immediately,” the Doctor ordered. “I’ll have to run some tests. Tom, I need you to prepare a sample of scum to culture.” </p>
<p>Tom’s stomach heaved. </p>
<p>“Of course,” Neelix said. “You’re not going to use it all, are you?” </p>
<p>“I’ll just need a small sample,” the Doctor replied. </p>
<p>Tom had picked up on Neelix’s meaning even if it had gone over the Doc’s head. “But we’ll have to confiscate all of it!” he said quickly.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tom sighed as he sank into the couch cushions. B’Elanna was rewatching a romantic movie on the television, the one about the recently single interior designer who returns to her small town to save the family business and falls in love with some guy and his dog. A yellow lab, not a poodle. She cuddled against his shoulder, and he gave her a little nudge then wrapped his arm around her as she leaned forward. He pulled her more snuggle against him. </p>
<p>“Everyone okay?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Yeah. It was the root beer.”</p>
<p>“Huh. I didn’t try it.” </p>
<p>Tom thought that it was the only thing she hadn’t tried but he wasn’t foolish enough to say it. </p>
<p>“He used fermented leeola root,” Tom said.</p>
<p>“Huh. Of course he did.”</p>
<p>“The good news is, that’s the last of it. The Doc dumped it. It’s gone.” </p>
<p>She turned and looked at him. “Really?” Her mouth lifted in a smile. </p>
<p>“Uh huh.” </p>
<p>“Almost seven years,” she noted. “I thought it would never end.” </p>
<p>“Me too,” he agreed. “We’ll have to figure out how to keep him out of the foraging parties so he can’t find any more.” </p>
<p>“Well, he does keep mentioning he wants to join security.”</p>
<p>Tom opened his mouth to reply when she cut him off. “Shhh! This is the good part.” The couple who were fated to fall in love and get married were arguing over something meaningless because what they really wanted to do was kiss each other breathless. Not a bad idea: the kissing, not the arguing.</p>
<p>He angled his head and dropped a peck on B’Elanna’s temple, then nudged her cheek with his nose. She turned toward him, and he kissed her long and slow. When he pulled back, he rubbed her belly. “Only replicated meals from now on,” he said. </p>
<p>B’Elanna smiled, then settled against him again and watched the heroine storm off screen in a huff.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>End note: Plot your own Hallmark Christmas (or not Christmas) movie here: https://wronghands1.files.wordpress.com/2019/11/hallmark-christmas-movie-plot-generator.jpg</p>
<p>I know, the link doesn’t work. Meh.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. (Plot)BUNNIES - (Plot)HOLE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A day or two before the events of Nightingale…</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>B’Elanna cupped the back of her neck and squeezed, then looked up as she rotated her head from side to side. She massaged the knot in the small of her back with her other hand. She felt like her ribs had compressed into her pelvis. She was tired, sore, and aching all over. She’d been run off her feet for the last week, and when she wasn’t crawling through kilometers of Jefferies tubes, she was standing for hours at a time. <i>Voyager</i> was falling apart. Okay, not falling apart exactly, but the ship was showing its wear and lack of a proper rehaul. Starships, even state-of-the-art ones, weren’t meant to fly for six years straight without proper maintenance in a ‘fleet shipyard. Really, it was a wonder that they’d lasted as long and as well as they had, and a testament to her staff’s abilities that they’d kept the ship running this long. </p>
<p>They’d set down on an L-Class planet to begin a long-overdue maintenance to the warp drive. Since they were landlocked for the time being, she’d planned to upgrade the impulse engines as well… but that was before she’d discovered a series of microfractures in the starboard nacelle. They were looking at another week planetside. At least.</p>
<p>But, the repair list be damned, she’d made the decision to take the night off; her well trained, talented staff could handle whatever came up on their own. She was looking forward to a hot bath—maybe with bubbles—and a steamy novel. And ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. </p>
<p>The doors to her quarters parted and she sailed through without missing a step. Tom must be home. With the ship set down on the planet he wasn’t needed at the helm and there was only so much he could do in an empty sickbay. When he wasn’t scouting the planetary system in a shuttle for raw materials, he’d been helping with <i>Voyager’s</i> maintenance overhaul, to the best of his somewhat limited abilities. He’d been...underfoot. There. Which was great, really, but there were times, especially when she was run off her feet in engineering, when she missed coming back to the silence and solitude of her old quarters at the end of her shift. </p>
<p>“Hey. You’re back early.” </p>
<p>Tom stepped out of their large clothes closet. He was dressed in his racing jumpsuit—not the standard ‘fleet issue white shouldered black and grey one, but a blue one he’d designed to wear while he drove his racecar on the holodeck. It had two little black and white checkered flags on the back, and the front was covered in patches that read, NAPA Auto Parts, and Goodyear, and NASCAR, whatever they meant. She hadn’t asked. The history of twentieth-century land speed racing didn’t particularly interest her. </p>
<p>“Vorik assured me he could handle it so I took the night off,” she replied. She headed to the couch and flopped down, then started to toe off her boots. Tom crossed to her and bent down to kiss her hello. He reached for her leg. She leaned back with a groan as he tugged off her other boot. Her eyes closed as she relaxed into the cushions.</p>
<p>He sat beside her and pulled her into a loose embrace. She pillowed her head against his shoulder and he asked into her hair, “How was your day?” </p>
<p>That was Tom Paris shorthand for, when will my ship be fixed so I can fly again? He was starting to get antsy being planetbound, she could tell. “Another week, at least.” At the look of disappointment on his face, she apologized. “Sorry. One thing seems to lead to another. The deeper we look, the more problems we find.”</p>
<p>“Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re finding them while we’re set down instead of having something blow while we’re at warp,” he noted. He raised her chin and placed a soft kiss on her mouth.  “I can whip us up something for dinner,” he offered. “What are you in the mood for?”</p>
<p>“Mmfff…” She drew a long breath and straightened, pulling away. “I had a late lunch a few hours ago. I’m not hungry.” She looked him up and down. “Are you going racing with Harry?” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Tom confirmed. His hand was resting on her knee and he gave it a light squeeze. “But I can cancel.” He dipped his head and kissed a trail up her throat to under her ear. “Since you’re home tonight.” He straightened then and looked at her. “You are home tonight, right?” </p>
<p>“No,” she shook her head. “I mean, yes, I’m done work for tonight, but you shouldn’t cancel on Harry.” </p>
<p>“I don’t mind. I’d rather chase you around a track.” He waggled his eyebrows as he grinned at her. </p>
<p>She snorted. “You’ll have more fun with Harry. I’m going to have a long, hot bath, then go to bed early.” </p>
<p>“I dunno,” Tom drawled, “sounds like fun to me…” </p>
<p>“To read,” she clarified. “A novel.” </p>
<p>“Ohhh!” Tom’s eyebrows shot upward, then he leaned closer and grinned. “Which novel?” </p>
<p>She drew a breath, then modulated her tone to teasing. “I don’t know. I heard the latest data stream had the winners of the T’Pau Institute Literary Competition.” </p>
<p>Tom’s features scrunched in distaste. “Sounds… as dry as Vulcan.” The door chime sounded and they both glanced toward it. “I’ll tell him to go on his own.” </p>
<p>“No. I thought you said it was more fun with two players.”</p>
<p>“Drivers,” Tom corrected. “But since we’re both home—”</p>
<p>The chime sounded again, interrupting him, and B’Elanna called for Harry to come in. He stepped inside and nodded at her. He was dressed in a jumpsuit resembling Tom’s, but his was a design in a starburst of red, yellow, and white triangles that B’Elanna thought Neelix would envy. </p>
<p>“Hurry up, Tom, I only have an hour. I have to run a diagnostic on the primary navigational sensors tonight.” </p>
<p>“No night off, Harry? Sounds tough,” Tom commented. “Your boss must be a real hardnose.” B’Elanna gave him a gentle shove in retaliation for the slur.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Harry agreed. </p>
<p>Tom glanced at B’Elanna, then turned back toward Harry, his features morphing into a look of regret. He opened his mouth but she cut him off. “Go!” she repeated. She loved him, she did, and she loved that they were sharing quarters now. She loved spending downtime with him, and knowing that he’d be here with her every night when they went to sleep, and beside her every morning when they woke up. But she hadn’t been alone since they’d gotten married, and she realized that she was looking forward to an hour or two on her own. “Have fun burning plastic or whatever it is you do.” </p>
<p>Tom’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure?” </p>
<p>“Positively. Besides, since you said you don’t want to go rock climbing, I might see if Chakotay wants to go with me tomorrow,” she suddenly decided. </p>
<p>“Oh,” Tom responded. </p>
<p>“I’ll be here when you get home.” She smiled at him. “And you can use the time on your own to come up with a programme we’ll <i>both</i> enjoy.” </p>
<p>He studied her for a moment then smiled back. “Okay.” He stood and grabbed his racing helmet from the dining table, then bent down and kissed her goodbye. “I’ll see you later,” he said softly. </p>
<p>“Bye, B’Elanna.” Harry turned and headed out the door. Tom followed him. </p>
<p>The doors closed with a soft <i>whoosh</i> and B’Elanna allowed her head to drop back onto the cushions. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence. She almost drifted off right there, but the lure of hot water and bubbles and, okay, fine, <i>Vulcan Love Slave, The Legacy: V’ler’s Story</i> was waiting for her, and she was more than ready for a little escapist literature. She snorted at the word. She was fairly certain that the novel hadn’t won this year’s T’Pau Institute award, but she didn’t care. She pulled herself up and headed toward the bedroom, shedding clothing as she went. She couldn’t wait to get into the tub. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Six months later, after the events of Renaissance Man…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>B’Elanna slid the tray of isolinear chips back into its housing, then turned and lifted the cover panel back into position and snapped it into place. She rose from the floor somewhat awkwardly, pulling herself to her feet by clutching the edge of the console. Vorik raised an eyebrow but he had the sense to keep his observations to himself. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s try it now.” </p>
<p>She put a hand to her lower back and stifled a groan as she stretched her spine. </p>
<p>“Initiating startup sequence, Lieutenant,” Vorik said. </p>
<p>His hands moved over the console display, fingers keying in the sequence to power up the system, and B’Elanna turned and focused her attention on the core. A white cloud of gaseous matter floated toward the top of the tube, pushed up by a spherical glob of bright blue. Within a few heartbeats, the clouds of plasma in the core were spinning and tumbling within the tube as it initialized. “Good,” she said with a nod. She tapped her combadge. “Torres to Captain Janeway, the core is online.” </p>
<p>“<i>That’s great news, B’Elanna. Your staff deserves a round of applause.</i></p>
<p>“Thank you, Captain.”</p>
<p><i>”I mean it,”</i> Janeway said. “A little bird told me that you’ve been putting in some extra hours. I think you deserve an evening off.”</p>
<p>B’Elanna would bet her last gel pack that the <i>little bird</i> was closer to two meters tall with dark blonde <i>feathers</i> and red shoulders. She snorted and lowered a hand to her belly, giving it an absent-minded rub. “That was my plan, Captain.”</p>
<p>
  <i>“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Janeway out.”</i>
</p>
<p>B’Elanna tapped a note into her PADD then handed it to Vorik. He took the PADD and nodded. “Have a good evening, Lieutenant,” he said. </p>
<p>After a quick glance around as she crossed main engineering, B’Elanna was out the door. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Tom had had a lot of time to himself this week while <i>Voyager</i> floated in space. B’Elanna had been working overtime—again—reinstalling the warp core and running diagnostics after the Doctor and Janeway’s run in with the <i>Overlookers</i>. He’d filled it with busywork: tidying their quarters, helping B’Elanna in engineering, inventorying sickbay’s supplies, topping up the ship’s medkits. If he were being honest, the time he’d spent in sickbay had been awkward, and not just due to the Doc’s heartfelt ‘deathbed’ confession in the holodeck after they’d transported him and the captain back from the Overlookers’ ship. Knowing that the Doc had been impersonating the crew, Tom couldn’t be sure that the B’Elanna he’d tracked down in engineering with the plate of fried chicken—the B’Elanna who had, let’s face it, acted a little out of character even for a hormone-fueled, usually mercurial, half-Klingon; the one who had called him first by his rank then by a pet name; the one who had appeared reluctant when he’d leaned in to kiss her goodbye—had actually <i>been</i> B’Elanna. If it wasn’t, he didn’t want to know. The Doc hadn’t included ‘impersonating a pregnant engineer and purloining smooches from her unwitting husband’ on his list of confessions, but he had behaved a little stiffly with him on his first shift back in sickbay. A lot stiffly, actually. Then he’d sent him to the shuttlebay to inventory and restock the medkids on the shuttles.  </p>
<p>Tom hadn't asked. Sometimes, the better part of valour was to leave well enough alone.</p>
<p>He hadn’t spent the entirety of his down time comming his wife to ask when she’d be done with work, or force feeding her picnic food; he’d been working on a surprise, a project he’d started before they’d even known that she was pregnant. He’d finally finished it this afternoon, in the nick of time. At her last prenatal checkup, the Doc had said that she could have the baby at any time. He’d started working on it the last time they’d been stopped for repairs, when they’d set down on that planet. He’d been hesitant to pick it up, after the events of The Great Insurrection (due to mind control, what else?). It had seemed a little tasteless and a lot less fun, but B’Elanna had asked him to write a holodeck programme that they’d both enjoy and…they and half the crew had enjoyed the original. At least, <i>he’d</i> enjoyed it until he and Tuvok had stumbled across the part that Seska had written. Come to think of it, after the hologram of the... okay, holographic, Doctor had burned his already injured arm, he’d wanted to steer clear of him then, too. </p>
<p>But, the Doctor aside, tonight he just wanted to spend his time with his wife. He started to raise a hand to tap his combadge when it chirped. </p>
<p>“<i>Torres to Paris.</i>”</p>
<p>He broke into a grin. “Paris, here. Tell me you’re done for the day and heading home,” he said. </p>
<p>“<i>I’m done for the day, and heading,</i>” the doors to their quarters parted and she waltzed inside, “home. Hi.” She smiled at him as she dropped her jacket on a dining chair then changed course to walk up to him and wind her arms around his neck. He leaned down to claim a kiss, pulling her closer. The hard sphere of her expanded belly pressed against his diaphragm and forced the air from his lungs in a muted <i>whoosh</i>.</p>
<p>“You’re home early,” he said. </p>
<p>“Um hmm,” she agreed.</p>
<p>“Vorik isn’t going to com you in a tizzy and need you to run to engineering, is he?” he asked.</p>
<p>She snorted, one side of her mouth lifting in a flash of a smile. “I certainly hope not, because unless the core breaches I’m staying here.” </p>
<p>“Hungry? I can replicate an early dinner. I was thinking chicken salad and a bottle of Katarian merlot?” </p>
<p>Synthahol was completely safe for the baby, but Tom had programmed in a de-synth’d version of their favorite wine, anyway. He wondered if she would remember the meal, the one they’d shared in his quarters when they’d first started dating, and one that held a special place in his heart more for the <em>dessert</em> they’d shared after dinner than for the food itself. It had been after the Captain had dressed them down in the briefing room. He’d always wondered if those aliens had actually been messing with their hormones, or if their ‘juvenile behaviour’ had simply been a result of their explosive attraction to each other. </p>
<p>“Maybe later. I had a late lunch.” She smiled her, ‘if I play this right, I will get my way because I can wrap him around my pinky finger’ smile, and he frowned, curious. “Do we have any more of that potato salad?” she asked. </p>
<p>“I can replicate all you want later, but actually, I’m glad you’re home; I have a surprise for you.” He grinned. </p>
<p>She raised a wary eyebrow. “What is it?” With Tom, you never knew.</p>
<p>“Do you remember, months ago, you asked me to write us a holodeck programme?”</p>
<p>“Ye—es.” </p>
<p>He watched her cheeks heat with remembered embarrassment, and assumed that she’d zeroed in on the day when Icheb had come to the ridiculous conclusion that she was romantically interested in him just because she’d invited him to go rock climbing with her on the holodeck.  </p>
<p>“Well, I finished it,” Tom pronounced. He held up an isolinear chip and waggled it in front of her nose. </p>
<p>“What is it?” she asked, taking the chip from him. </p>
<p>“A surprise,” Tom said, cryptically. “Something that’s been stuck in my head for a while.”</p>
<p>She twirled the chip in her fingers. “How long a while?” </p>
<p>“Almost four years,” he admitted. At her look of confused disbelief he shrugged. “We had that whole thing with the Borg happen when Seven came aboard, then we started dating and it sort of slipped my mind.” He slid his hands over her hips and pulled her close again, skimming a kiss up her throat. “We figured out other ways to spend our time,” he murmured.</p>
<p>She laughed and dropped a hand to her belly. “And look where that got us. Maybe we should have spent more time in the holodeck,” she teased. </p>
<p>“Oh, I think we would have ended up in this predicament anyway; I recall a few holodeck dates that ended in a different kind of exercise than the one we’d planned.” Their own version of the <em>Klingon workout programme</em>.</p>
<p>She snorted in amusement. “Do I have to change?” </p>
<p>‘Nope, your uniform will do just fine. Well,” he reconsidered, “you could try your old Maquis clothes.” </p>
<p>She scoffed, likely imagining trying to squeeze into those skin-tight pants. Though they now had the replicator output to replicate just about anything they wanted thanks to those aliens they’d met in the Void a few months ago, he knew that B’Elanna was conscious of the fact that she wouldn't be able to fit into anything she owned for a while. </p>
<p>“As if I could get anywhere near them,” she said.</p>
<p>“Your vest and boots would fit.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s about all.” </p>
<p>He waggled an eyebrow, picturing her in that vest that didn’t cover her breasts even back then, and her tall boots, and nothing else. “That’s all you’d need.” He scraped his teeth across her jaw and felt her shiver. If they weren’t careful, they’d get off track, and as much as he was looking forward to a little <i>exercise</i> with her later, he wanted her to try this holodeck programme before the baby came. He stepped away from her and tapped his combadge. “Computer, is there a holodeck free?” </p>
<p>::Holodeck two is currently unreserved until nineteen thirty hours:: came the reply. </p>
<p>“Good. Reserve holodeck two for Lieutenant Paris, starting now until that time.”</p>
<p>::Holodeck reserved::</p>
<p>Tom smiled and proffered an elbow. “Care to join me, Lieutenant?” B’Elanna took it, curiosity pinching her features. “What?” he asked. </p>
<p>“I’m just trying to figure out what could have nagged at you for the last four years that you haven’t had the opportunity to write.” </p>
<p>Tom just smiled.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>They stepped through the holodeck doors into a turbolift. B’Elanna lifted an eyebrow, then frowned in confusion as she saw his red uniform change to gold. He just smiled then dropped his gaze to the holographic PADD that had appeared in his hand. “Are we still on for later?” he asked, sotto voce. </p>
<p>She couldn’t tell if he had started the game or not, but she took a chance that he was in character. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “I may be busy.” One way or another, they were definitely ‘on’ for tonight. </p>
<p>“Okay,” he said. “Think about it.” </p>
<p>The ‘lift stopped and the doors parted, and she took a step forward then paused. Tom stayed where he was, studiously reading the PADD. Tabor was walking down the corridor and passed by the open lift; he nodded at them both. Tom didn’t look up. B’Elanna went with it and stepped into the corridor. She glanced behind her at the closing ‘lift doors, and Tom winked. She rolled her eyes. </p>
<p>She rounded the corridor, about ten paces behind Tabor when she felt a hand settle on her shoulder. </p>
<p>“Where are you headed?” Chakotay asked.</p>
<p>“The messhall,” she replied. “I could use a cup of coffee.” </p>
<p>“Why don’t you come with me to the bridge,” he suggested. “We can have that coffee later.”</p>
<p>She raised an eyebrow but played along. “Okay.” </p>
<p>“So, how’s it going?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Okay, I guess.” Her answer was noncommittal. Was he asking about her pregnancy or ship’s repairs? She had no clue but, she realized, this scenario was starting to feel familiar. Really, you weren’t supposed to replicate ship’s personnel in a holodeck programme unless it was for training purposes or to evaluate an incident that had gone FUBAR. She wondered what Tom was up to…</p>
<p>“Tuvok still giving you a hard time?” He smiled at her. </p>
<p>She stopped walking and stared at him. “A little.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but when I think about spending the next seventy years on the same ship with that guy, it gives me a headache. I get the impression that a lot of the crew agrees with me. Maquis and Starfleet.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna smiled. Tom’s ability to recall the programme was, quite frankly, amazing. Though, she reflected, she couldn’t actually remember what the characters had said, so maybe he’d made it all up. She reached up to her collar and fingered her rank bar. So, she was a Maquis in Tom’s scenario. Good. </p>
<p>“So,” <i>Chakotay</i> prompted, “what do you think about what I’ve been saying? That a lot of the crew aren’t too happy with our Chief of Security. And for that matter, I don’t think the Captain’s winning any popularity contests either. Don’t you agree?” </p>
<p>“Completely.” She tugged him into an empty turbolift that had appeared in the corridor in front of them. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?” she asked. </p>
<p>He tilted his head and observed her for a moment, and she wondered if Tom hadn’t accounted for her agreeing to join the uprising quite so quickly. She felt a little ripple of unease, remembering the actual attempted insurrection just weeks after she and Tom had married. Luckily, Tuvok had snapped out of it and helped the rest of them to come to their senses before they could abandon the Starfleet crew on that planet. Just the thought of being without Tom made her gut clench. </p>
<p>She shook it off; this was meant to be fun, and she was looking forward to seeing what he’d come up with for an ending.</p>
<p>“There’s going to be some changes around here,” the Chakotay hologram said. “With you, all of the Maquis are in line, and twenty five of the Starfleet crew are with us.” </p>
<p>“We’re still outnumbered,” she noted. He nodded his agreement. “What do you need from me?” she asked.</p>
<p>“I need you to feel out your department. Be discrete.” </p>
<p>“Okay.” She nodded. </p>
<p>“We could use your senior staff on our side: Nicoletti, Carey.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna felt a pang of loss at Joe’s name. Tom really had started working on this programme months ago. She would have to mention to him that he should change that line of dialogue.</p>
<p>“Ensign Vorik seems bright but he’s Vulcan.” Chakotay’s mouth twisted in distaste.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she agreed. “But he might see the logic in joining our side.”</p>
<p>He nodded. “If there are any other ‘fleeters you can think of, let me know.” </p>
<p>“Right. Bridge,” she ordered. The ‘lift started to move, but Chakotay called it to halt. “What?” she asked.</p>
<p>“You’re close to Kim and Paris,” he said.</p>
<p>Her mouth twitched but she managed to keep a straight face. “I suppose so,” she agreed.</p>
<p>“Kim would be an asset; he knows the ship’s operations better than any of us.”</p>
<p>“That’s true,” she agreed. “I should be able to persuade him to join us.”</p>
<p>He nodded. “And we could use someone with Paris’ talents. He’s an exceptional pilot and a natural leader, but he’s Starfleet born and bred.” </p>
<p>She stifled a snicker.</p>
<p>“If he’s already with us, great, if not, I want you to see if you can <i>turn</i> him.” </p>
<p>And then it clicked and she <i>did</i> laugh. She remembered it clearly: Tom and Tuvok at a table in the mess working on finishing the programme that Tuvok had abandoned, before they’d accidentally activated the version that Seska had written. Her, coming to the table with a suggestion that they include a bit more emotion, more passion, in the story, and Tom offering to create a passionate love scene between the Starfleet pilot and the Maquis engineer… </p>
<p>“Oh, don’t worry, Chakotay.” She said with confidence born of experience. “I can make Tom Paris do whatever I want.” </p>
<p>He smiled evilly and called for the ‘lift to resume.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>She hadn’t seen any sign of Seska, which wasn’t a surprise; she doubted that Tom would want to revisit that part of the programme. They’d taken the bridge with hardly any effort. Harry and Tom had been rounded up with the rest of the ‘fleeters and marched to the brig. After the Great Uprising, the computer had ditched her maternity jacket and overlaid a long leather vest over her uniform shirt, so she at least had the semblance of a Maquis rebel. A Maquis rebel who looked like she’d swallowed a basketball whole, but none of the characters appeared to notice her belly. It was a shame, she thought, that she hadn’t changed her boots before they’d come to the holodeck, though. Oh well. </p>
<p>She hadn’t had a chance to <i>persuade</i> Tom to their side before Chakotay’s crew had taken the bridge and engineering, and she hadn’t seen him since he’d been escorted off the bridge with the rest of the hardcore ‘fleeters. He’d sent her a wink as he tussled with Ayala on the way out. But Harry had been hauled to the captain’s ready room and he stood defiantly in front of her. She was supposed to talk him into joining them. </p>
<p>“I can’t believe you’re in league with these traitors!” he exclaimed bitterly. “After everything Captain Janeway has done for you.”</p>
<p>“Harry,” she began.</p>
<p>“She made you chief engineer! She put her faith in you! And she’s always treated all the Maquis like the rest of the crew,” Holo-Harry continued.</p>
<p>Had she, B’Elanna wondered? Maybe. But the better question was, did Tom believe that? </p>
<p>“Harry, listen to me.” She cut him off. “We don’t have much time. Chakotay is going to come in here in a few minutes and make you decide between joining us or going back to the brig.”</p>
<p>“How can you imagine I’d ever join—”</p>
<p>“Because it’s more interesting for the plot than being abandoned on the first M-class planet we come across.” </p>
<p>“The plot? B’Elanna, this isn’t a game—”</p>
<p>“Of course not.” She took his hands in hers to settle him. “Pretend to join us. Chakotay needs you. He might be a little suspicious of you at first, but probably not since you just graduated from the Academy.” </p>
<p>Holo-Harry stiffened and his chin shot up; she’d forgotten how damn <i>young</i> he’d been seven years ago. </p>
<p>“I’m a Starfleet officer. I’m loyal to Captain Janeway.”</p>
<p>“I know. But,” she glanced toward the ready room door, “you have to pretend that you’re not.” He frowned at her and she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “We can’t retake the ship and rescue the captain if you and Tom are in the brig.” She stared at him intently hoping that Tom had written the programme so that Harry was adaptive. “If you don’t join us, Harry, you’ll never see Earth again,” she pressed.</p>
<p>Chakotay chose that moment to enter the ready room unannounced with Ayala at his side. Mike was carrying the biggest phaser rifle she’d ever seen. If it ran out of power cells, it would make a good battering ram. “Has he made up his mind?” he asked her.</p>
<p>She sent Harry a wordless message: play along! She was about to reply when Harry reached up and ripped the pip off his collar—Tom had absolutely guessed that B’Elanna would try this tactic, darn it—and stepped toward Chakotay. “Permission to take my post, Captain,” he said.</p>
<p>“Permission granted, Harry. <i>Welcome aboard</i>.” </p>
<p>As the former—for now—Starfleet ensign moved toward the bridge, Chakotay thumped her on the back in congratulations. “What did you say to him to change his mind?” he asked.</p>
<p>She had absolutely no doubt that Chakotay had been listening to their conversation all along, which was why she’d lowered her voice when she’d mentioned her plan to him. “I just reminded him that he’d never get home unless he did,” she said succinctly. </p>
<p>Chakotay nodded. “Go grab some grub,” he said. “Think about how you’re going to get Paris on our side.” </p>
<p>Her lips twitched. Knowing Tom’s preferred method of persuasion, she didn’t have to think too hard about <i>that</i> plan. She nodded to Chakotay and the room dissolved, replaced by her quarters, which was a surprise; she’d assumed she’d end up in the messhall. She was back in her old quarters, actually, and she felt a small pang of nostalgia. There was a stack of PADDS on the coffee table and her bed was unmade, and discarded clothing littered the end of the bed and the couch. The long vest she’d used to wear over her workout outfit hung from the back of a dining chair. She frowned. “We are not replaying the Day of Honour, Tom,” she stated, a note of warning in her voice.</p>
<p>She stood there for a moment, wondering if she was supposed to tidy up. She glanced at the door, expecting the chime to sound, but it didn’t. Now what? She was just about to leave and head back to the bridge when she heard a <i>clang!</i> followed by a soft thump coming from the wall. What the…? </p>
<p>“...B’Elanna…!” </p>
<p>Her name sounded muffled, and it took her a moment to locate where it was coming from. There was a vibration, then an actual knocking on the slatted access hatch that covered the ventilation duct on her wall. “Tom?” She crossed to the wall and peered up at him, then huffed a laugh. He was crouched inside the shaft, his fingers curled around the slats as he peered at her from between them. </p>
<p>“Little help here?” he said. </p>
<p>She reached up and unclipped the pins that were holding the hatch in place, then lowered it to the floor. Tom backed up a bit then turned and eased himself through the hole in the wall. </p>
<p>“How did you…?”</p>
<p>“I had the computer start me a couple of meters from the vent,” he explained. </p>
<p>“I… No, I mean, aren’t you supposed to be in the brig?” </p>
<p>Tom shrugged. “I escaped.” </p>
<p>Her mouth dropped open. “From the brig. With the forcefield in place and guards watching you and everyone else, you managed to escape? Did you bribe Chell with our jar of peanut butter to let you out?” </p>
<p>He scowled. “No…”</p>
<p>“So how?” she insisted. </p>
<p>Tom rolled his eyes. “I dunno. Somehow. I just do, it doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”</p>
<p>“Ha!” she exclaimed. She crossed her arms and rested them on her belly. “I think it is. I mean, if we have a security risk, I think we should tell the captain and, don’t you?” </p>
<p>He seized on the opportunity to nudge her back into the game. “Which captain?” he asked with a sly look in his eyes. </p>
<p>She raised her chin, deciding that, while it was fun to bait him, what was coming next was probably going to be a lot <i>more</i> fun. “Which one do you think? Which side are you on, Paris?” </p>
<p>He smiled and slipped back in character. “I like to think I’m on your side, Torres,” he said. </p>
<p>She tilted her head and studied him for a moment. “Chakotay wants me to seduce you so you’ll join us,” she told him. </p>
<p>His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she parted her lips slightly. His cheeks flushed. “I’m a Starfleet officer,” he said. “I’ve been trained to resist all forms of… persuasion.” </p>
<p>She snorted a laugh and his eyebrows came together in a scowl, but she could see that he was fighting the urge to laugh, too. “But I still have to try,” she said, moving toward him. “You’ve been flirting with me for months, Paris. I need to know if you were serious.” She slid her palms over his shoulders and played with the crisp curls at his collar. He shivered as she ran her fingertips over the back of his neck. </p>
<p>He put his hands at her waist and pulled her close. “I take flirting <i>very</i> seriously, Torres. I thought you knew that by now.” </p>
<p>She grinned at that, then decided to try the same tactic on him that she’d used on Harry. “If you don’t join us, you’ll never see home again.” </p>
<p>He leaned closer and ran his lips over her cheek, then whispered in her ear. It was her turn to shiver. “You’re my home, B’Elanna.” </p>
<p>He’d said it to her before, but this time she felt the prick of tears. “Tom…” Then he was kissing her and, she reflected, this was turning out to be one steamy love scene between the ‘fleet pilot and the Maquis engineer, after all! </p>
<p>They were interrupted by the computer. ::Assigned holodeck time will elapse in five minutes::</p>
<p>B’Elanna groaned. “Already?” She pulled away and peered at him. “You realize that we spent all of our time on our own? I thought the point of this programme was that we were supposed to do it together.”</p>
<p>“Oh, we’re not done,” Tom said. “There are still chapters and chapters to get through.” </p>
<p>“Really?” she grinned, imagining what else he’d thought up.</p>
<p>“Uh huh. You still have to <i>perusade</i> me to join the rebels, then we have to stage an insurrection of our own from the inside and retake the ship.”</p>
<p>She pouted, slightly deflated that he’d known how she would play out the story. “How did you know I’d want to do that?” she asked.</p>
<p>“I have been paying attention for the last seven years, you know. Computer, pause programme and save, then end programme.” </p>
<p>::Saved:: </p>
<p>Her old quarters dissolved and they were once again standing in the bare hologrid. The shoulders of Tom’s jacket were red again, and B’Elanna’s leather vest had disappeared, replaced with her own uniform. Tom placed a hand to her back as they started for the door.</p>
<p>“What if I’d decided to join the rebels and leave you on the planet with the rest of them?” she asked.</p>
<p>Tom grinned. “Oh, I have confidence in my own powers to persuade you to keep me with you.” He dropped a quick peck on her mouth. “But I wrote that variant too, just in case. And one where you decide to stay on the planet with us.” </p>
<p>She laughed. “Sounds like you’ve covered all the eventualities,” she said. Except how he’d managed to escape from the brig, she thought. They paused just within the door’s sensor, and Tom leaned down and kissed her again just as the doors parted.</p>
<p>“Get a room.” </p>
<p>Harry’s voice broke them apart. They both stared at him, then quickly glanced at each other before focusing their attention back on him again. His arms were bare, and he had a sword in his hand. He was dressed in a tooled leather breastplate and a skirt made of strips of matching leather that fell to mid thigh. A long cape was attached to his shoulders and it swished around his calves, which were criss-crossed with leather straps that held on his thick-soled sandals.</p>
<p>B’Elanna stared at his bare toes for a moment. </p>
<p>“Roman gladiator?” Tom asked. “Are you going to fight a lion, Harry?”</p>
<p>“Yes, among other things. I’m Hercules,” he answered. “It’s a new programme that was part of the data dump last week.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” Tom nodded. “Sounds like fun.” </p>
<p>“There’s twelve parts,” Harry informed him. “For the twelve labours of Hercules.” </p>
<p>“Labours?” </p>
<p>“Tasks,” Harry clarified. “He fights a lion, a hydra, there’s something about a belt. They’re referred to as ‘labours’ in Greek mythology.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna’s mouth dropped open with a gasp. She put a hand to her belly. Tom wrapped his fingers around her elbow as he said her name. Harry’s eyes went round and he reached for her as well, unfortunately with the hand holding the sword. “You’re not…?!”</p>
<p>She straightened. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine,” B’Elanna said. “She was just rolling over.” She sent Tom a little grin. Harry scowled. </p>
<p>“Have fun, Harry,” Tom said as he guided B’Elanna down the corridor toward the ‘lift. “G’nite.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you too,” he answered. </p>
<p>Tom slid an arm around B’Elanna’s shoulder. “That was terrible of you,” he said.</p>
<p>“I know, but Harry makes it too easy.”</p>
<p>They’d reached the turbolift and they stepped inside. Tom called for their deck, then grinned. “Ready for dinner?” he asked. </p>
<p>“Yes,” she said simply. She turned toward him and looped her arms around his shoulders. “And don’t forget, after dinner you owe me a steamy love scene, Lieutenant.” </p>
<p>Tom smiled and leaned down to kiss a trail along her throat to under her ear. “Oh, I have several chapters of that written, too,” he assured her. </p>
<p>She just laughed, then kissed him back.</p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. LIGHT - MUG</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Why is it glowing?” Tom asked.</p>
<p>“It’s not glowing,” Harry sighed.</p>
<p>“It is,” Tom insisted. “Look.” He pointed to the mug of coffee-like liquid in Harry’s hand.</p>
<p>“That’s just a reflection of the lights off the surface of the liquid.” But Harry didn’t look quite as sure about that as he did a few moments ago.</p>
<p>Tom’s smile morphed into that self-satisfied, all-knowing smirk that he sometimes wore around Harry. “So you’d think,” he postulated. “But I’ll bet, if you drink it, you might start to glow too.”</p>
<p>Tom’s eyebrow climbed upward. Harry’s expression puckered. B’Elanna tapped a finger to her lips. </p>
<p>“You know,” she observed, “it does have a sort of <em>shimmer</em> on its surface.” </p>
<p>“That’s just the fat from the cream.” Harry’s tone was dismissive. </p>
<p>“Fine,” B’Elanna intonated with a shrug. “Try it. We’ll just watch you see what happens. Tom is a qualified medic now.” She sent him a sly grin.</p>
<p>Harry rolled his eyes. He raised the mug to his mouth. “You guys are a laugh riot,” he muttered. </p>
<p>“I’m sure it’s in your personnel file, but just so we know, how did you want your remains handled?” Tom queried. Harry’s hand paused it’s upward momentum, his coffee cup halted midway between the table top and his mouth. “There’s the classic torpedo tube,” Tom suggested.</p>
<p>“We’re starting to run out of those,” B’Elanna noted.</p>
<p>“Or, we could just beam your body into space on wide-dispersal. Scatter your atoms,” Tom concluded. </p>
<p>Harry’s upper lip curled. “Ha ha,” he voiced. </p>
<p>“Hmmf. You’re laughing now…” Tom phonated. </p>
<p>Harry hesitated. </p>
<p>“Enjoying breakfast? Anyone need a refill?” Neelix appeared at Harry’s elbow. He smiled widely and gestured toward Harry’s mug. “Refreshing, isn’t it?” he declared. “I’ve called it <em>Potent Pulsar</em> in honour of today’s stellar phenomenon.” </p>
<p>Neelix pointed to the large viewports at the back of the mess, and the twin stars that appeared to wink at them as they spun in space, then turned back to face them again. “I used a little Meroxian phosphorescent algae to give it that shimmer. It did add a slightly tart aftertaste, but I think it goes well with the Cacuxit spider milk in the topping.” </p>
<p>Harry’s stomach pinched. He glanced at B’Elanna. Her head was on a slight angle as she watched him, mutely. </p>
<p>“The flavour is certainly… distinctive,” Tom proclaimed. </p>
<p>“Singular,” B’Elanna added with a nod. </p>
<p>“Especial?” Tom proposed. </p>
<p>B’Elanna waggled her head and sucked her lip in consideration. </p>
<p>“I haven’t tried it yet,” Harry confessed to Neelix. </p>
<p>“What about your two?” Neelix enquired. He espied the dregs of their replicated java. </p>
<p>“Er… I…” Tom hedged. </p>
<p>“We need to… ummm...” B’Elanna began. </p>
<p>Just then the ship lurched and the yellow alert klaxon sounded. Tom, Harry and B’Elanna all leapt to their feet and made their way to the mess hall doors before Chakotay’s voice called them to their stations. </p>
<p>“Saved by the tocsin,” Tom announced. </p>
<p>“Just in time; it might have been full of toxins,” B’Elanna posited. </p>
<p>“Please stop,” Harry lamented. </p>
<p>Tom sniggered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. MEET CUTE - GREEN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: I took a few liberties. It’s what I do. This is the flipside of a scene from my Fictober prompts, chapter 19. Humble thanks to Lady Arreya for remembering and finding the scene. Maybe it’s more a meet ‘grumpy’ than a meet ‘cute’.</p><p>**</p><p>Rain slanted down from a grey sky, gusting under her umbrella and wetting her hair. Water dripped under her collar and ran in cold runnels down the back of her neck. The wind looped and curled against her body and, trapped by the curved waterproof cloth, almost pushed the umbrella up out of her hands. She used both to pull it back down. </p><p>She was late for class, and the weather was a <em>sympathetic</em> accent to her morning. She’d slept late and hadn’t had time to shower or eat breakfast. Cal had come in late last night, waking her up, and her alarm had rung at 0445, waking B’Elanna again. She’d managed to fall back to sleep eventually. On reflection, she should have gotten up when Cal did but she’d felt exhausted. Bad dreams had haunted her last night, and what sleep she’d managed to grab had been anything but restful. </p><p>She’d all but dragged herself to her 0800 class where Professor Amanin had disagreed with her assessment of Pip’s motivations and had made her explain her reasoning to the other students. Why the hell they were studying <em>Great Expectations</em>, a five hundred year old Earth novel, she couldn’t fathom. She didn’t understand why Communications was a required class, anyway. She could fucking communticate! She had no problems communicating!</p><p>Well, if the wind and the rain of post-Medieval London had reflected Pip’s ‘confused inner world’, today’s shitty weather certainly seemed to be a reflection of B’Elanna’s current state of mind. She was in a bad mood. And she was late for Chapman’s Elemental Properties class. And she was wet. She hated being wet. </p><p>The day felt angry, impatient, fed up. And stuck. She felt stuck. She’d had her own great expectations when she’d applied to the Academy a year ago. She’d imagined it as the first step to a bright future, the universe at her fingertips, where she would be surrounded by like-minded people from all the Federation worlds. But, aside from a smattering of Vulcans, Bolians, Betazoids, and the occasional Bajoran, the Academy was Human-heavy. Just like home. </p><p>The thought made her even more disgruntled. Another gust of wind drove the rain into her face and whipped a lock of hair into her mouth. When she’d first arrived in San Francisco, it had been to a prolonged stretch of lovely weather: warm, sunny days, gentle, ocean-scented breezes, and cool cloudless evenings where she could sit out and gaze at the unfamiliar constellations in the nighttime sky. She’d been had. It was possible that Starfleet Command had employed the Weather Control Net to assure a temperate autumn, but it was more likely that the universe had suckered her. </p><p>Well today, the weather was in harmony with her. What had Professor Amanin called that? Pathetic fallacy. Well, she was feeling a little pathetic, and her belief that she would find a place here, at the Academy, was a fallacy. </p><p>When the warm, sunny days had turned to a cloudy, chilly fall, she’d still marvelled at the change in the weather. Kessik was a desert world: rocky and barren, with hot days and cold nights, and very little <em>weather</em> to speak of. There was some vegetation, but nothing to rival the expanse of greenery and the forty seven different kinds of precipitation she’d found in San Francisco: a light mist that made her feel fresh and reborn; early morning fog so thick that she could barely see a metre past her nose; warm raindrops that felt <em>round</em> and greasy when they struck her skin; sudden cloudbursts of sharp, jagged, cold rain that soaked her completely in minutes. Not to forget the sleet and hail that had been such a shock in January. She’d had no idea there were so many different types of rain, or that spring could feel more like a prolonged winter.</p><p>She was crossing the commons in an attempt to shave a few minutes off her journey to the Science building. Chapman was always on her case about something, but today it wasn’t her fault that she was late. Amanin had kept her after class, droning on about the importance of history and how it was reflected in literature, and the psychology of literary devices and how they can be helpful when applied to modern day interaction with other species. The implication wasn’t lost on her: as a Human-Klingon hybrid, she was the only example of her species there; quite literally, to her everyone else was <em>other</em>.</p><p>Amanin’s little mini-lecture had made her late. Again. The wind blew hard enough that she staggered. Max, of course, chose that moment to hail her. Things hadn’t been great with him for a while. <em>Good</em> might even be an exaggeration. Cal had heavily hinted that it might be time for B’Elanna to trade him in for next year’s model. It was nothing that he’d done per se—nothing that he hadn’t done either, really. Their relationship had simply become stale. Boring. Bland. She’d made a mistake in getting involved with him so intensely, so quickly. <em>Mok’tah</em>, as her grandmother L’Naan would say. </p><p>But with exams approaching and the Academy track meet to train for, she didn’t have the energy or the time to do anything about it right now. He hailed her again, and she sighed. He knew her schedule. Why was he calling her when she was supposed to be in class? Of course, he was supposed to be in class, too, so maybe he was wondering why she was late? </p><p>She took a hand off the umbrella handle and tapped her combage in resignation. The wind tried to yank it away. “Hi, Max. Tell Chapman I’m almost there.”</p><p>“<em>I’m not sure he’s noticed you’re not here.</em>”</p><p>Fat chance, B’Elanna thought. “I’m crossing the commons. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said, hoping to cut him off.</p><p>“<em>That’s good to know. I was wondering what happened to you.</em>”</p><p>He’d probably expected to have breakfast with her this morning, like most mornings. “I slept in.”</p><p>“<em>Oh. That’s not like you.</em>” </p><p>Actually, it was very much like her, lately. She’d found herself napping a lot, her energy flagging. She only really felt alive anymore when she was training with Coach Kirkendall, a stress on her time that Max had complained about repeatedly.</p><p>“<em>I thought we could go to the pier this afternoon for lunch,</em>” he continued.</p><p>She hated that fucking pier and the pretentious restaurants that lined it! “In a gale?” she laughed. </p><p>“<em>It’s supposed to clear up later.</em>”</p><p>She could hear a defensive note creep into his tone. She looked around as she hurried along the winding path toward C-Building. No grumpy gardeners in sight. Fuck it, she thought, I’m cutting through. She sprinted across the lawn, dodging a winding flower garden. </p><p>“We’ll talk about it after class,” she said. They likely wouldn’t. She would just go along with him, cajoled by his big brown eyes and an undertone of guilt whenever she thought about him, lately. She <em>had</em> been ignoring him recently, ignoring them. She should be happy that he’d noticed and was willing to put up with her moodiness and erratic behaviour. </p><p>“I’m almost there,” she repeated. She tapped her combadge to cut their conversation just as a strong gust of wind buffeted her, making her stagger. It almost blew the umbrella out of her hand again, and she had to grab onto it to keep it from flying into the air and over the rotunda, the round building on the eastern end of the commons that housed the student mess, cafes, and a study area, as well as a lounge that overlooked the wide, green lawn and ornamental gardens. The ones she was now crossing against regulations, getting her boots soaked on the wet grass. She struggled with both hands to pull the umbrella closer, and the canopy flipped inside-out, exposing the ribs and showering her head and shoulders with raindrops.</p><p>“ghay’cha’!” she cursed. </p><p>She ran toward the rotunda building, seeking the shelter of the deep overhanging roof that shaded a patio area littered with tables and chairs. Not that anyone was sitting at them today. It was backed by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, looking into the student lounge. She hadn’t spent much time there, but she assumed that it was packed today. Everyone who would be out in the garden was likely inside. </p><p>She leaned against the window as she fought with the umbrella, attempting to turn it right way round. Stupid fucking thing! Stupid fucking wind! A thousand years of innovation, and no one could come up with a rain shield that didn’t snap in a strong wind? She could just toss it and replicate a new one, but that wasn’t how she was raised. Kessik had replicators, of course, but they required power that was better spent on heat and food. They were encouraged to mend, rather than replace, everyday items. </p><p>She shoved a straggle of damp hair out of her eyes, and grabbed at the soaking wet fabric and tugged, eventually flipping the canopy back the right way. She was sprayed with droplets again—a result her engineer’s mind really should have anticipated—and she closed her eyes on a flash of temper. One of the ribs had snapped in half and hung down from the hinge like a severed, skeletal finger bone. Her own fingers clenched on the handle and she glanced upward, blowing a breath. Her eyes met those of a cadet standing at the windows. </p><p>They were the oddest shade of blue she’d ever seen, like one of the flowers in the commons garden, and she was momentarily arrested by them. By him. He was Human, tall and slim, and appeared broad-shouldered in his uniform. She couldn’t help comparing him to Max. His sandy-coloured hair and pale skin were a sharp contrast to Max’s swarthiness, and the analytical side of her brain couldn’t help noting how attractive he was. Or would have been if he hadn’t been staring at her that way. </p><p>His mouth hung open in a loose grin as he studied her, his eyes dipping downward to take in her figure. Not that she looked like much more than a drowned <em>koreba</em> in her wet, black and gold cadet’s uniform. </p><p>He was staring at her like she was an exhibit in a zoo. She scowled. <em>Ding ding ding!</em> you win the prize, she thought. You spotted the elusive Klingon cadet in the wild, if not in her natural habitat. Her mouth twisted and she frowned at him. As a bonus, he got to witness that famous Klingon temper. He’d probably go back and tell all of his friends. If he was lucky, the story would get him laid tonight. That, or his remarkably pretty eyes. </p><p>She noticed the gold ‘leg spreaders’ on his collar below his class rank pin. Bird’s wings. Angel’s wings. This guy was no angel, she was sure. He was a pilot: rocket jockey, ace, eagle. Whatever other stupid names they’d given themselves. He didn’t need the blue eyes and the story to get some action, his status on the top rung of the cadet ladder did it for him. </p><p>The chirp of her combadge interrupted her thoughts. “<em>Hey, BLT, Chapman’s noticed you’re missing. Whad’ya do, cut through Canada, go the long way around?</em>”</p><p>She turned away from the window—she didn’t want the jerk to think she was talking to him—and tapped her combadge as she sprinted across the patio. “I’m walking into the building now,” she said, stretching the truth only a little. Ten seconds later, she ran through the doors of C-building and hurried along the corridor to Chapman’s lecture hall. She stopped momentarily to shove the damned umbrella into a reclaimator and scrape the strands of wet hair back off her forehead. Max liked it long, but it was a pain in the ass. Maybe, if she did ever get around to breaking up with him, she’d cut it all off. </p><p>She slipped into the classroom as unobtrusively as possible, but Chapman noted her arrival. So did Max. He smiled warmly at her, his face lighting up. She smiled back and slipped into the seat beside him, and his warm hand closed around her chilled one, and gave it a familiar squeeze. Her stomach rumbled. Maybe lunch at the Pier wasn’t such a bad idea after all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. MUSIC - ETIQUETTE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: The prompts immediately made me think of the episode with the aliens in that void who only communicate through music, The Void. Alas, because I haven’t done a Voyager rewatch in forever, I thought that episode was Night. A pregnant B’Elanna didn’t fit into my plot, but Harry’s clarinet did. </p><p>I don’t know anything about music. I hope I faked it well enough for an equally clueless Tom Paris.</p><p>****</p><p>He wasn’t sure who started it (he had), but he didn’t apologize (neither did she). One minute they were playing a civilized game of durada, the next they were at each other’s throats (so to speak). </p><p>
  <em>You two are senior officers; you’re supposed to be setting an example for the rest of the crew!</em>
</p><p>Neelix had appeared and tried to deflate their quarrel, and had started to hyperventilate when his attempts had only pushed their bickering to a full out argument. To be honest, Tom was relieved by the distraction. She’d pushed him, prodded him. Goaded him. And he’d snapped back, trying to shake her out of her sullen mood. They’d both hit a little close to home. He’d been shocked by the words rushing out of his mouth but unable to control or stop them. Months of pent up concern and low-key resentment had spurred him onward, if only to see if he could force her to <em>react</em>. He’d been on the verge of delivering a good old fashioned Klingon <em>killing blow</em>, sure to alienate her even further, when Neelix had pushed his way between them. What the hell had possessed him to bring up pain sticks? </p><p>
  <em>Everything is a joke to you.</em>
</p><p>Not everything. And he sure as hell wasn’t laughing now. Irritation rippled through him: the last dregs of his justified, defensive anger. She’d changed, and he didn’t know why. Or maybe she’d only changed toward him. She was… flat. Moody. Unavailable, in more ways than one, and he wasn’t convinced it was only her reaction to the unbroken darkness outside the ship. </p><p>They’d been travelling through <em>the Void</em> for two months, a drop in the bucket compared to the two years that it would take <em>Voyager</em> to traverse the expanse. Going around would have taken even longer. It was starless, a great sweeping stretch of nothingness, complicated by the fact that their long range sensors were obscured by theta radiation and unable to pick up any stellar phenomenon on the other side. After two weeks of staring at a black viewscreen, Tom had suggested they run a recording of starfields rushing by at warp: the Delta Quadrant’s greatest hits. They could start with the Komar nebula, move on to the Pralor trinary system, then dip their toes into the Nekrit Expanse before reviewing the astral eddies near the ruins of the Vostigye space station. And of course they couldn’t leave out the Agrat-Mot nebula on the edge of B’Omar space, or that Y class planet with the silver goo. </p><p>Chakotay had shot him down. So, instead, whenever he was on the bridge, he kept his eyes on his conn panels and played a game of ‘will today be the day we lose the starboard thruster?’. It hadn’t happened yet; with nothing to do but maintenance, <em>Voyager</em> was running at peak efficiency. Too bad his relationship with B’Elanna wasn’t. </p><p>
  <em>You two are senior officers; you’re supposed to be setting an example for the rest of the crew!</em>
</p><p>They’d set an example all right, but instead of feeling chagrined by Neelix’ reaction to their argument, he’d felt vindicated. As if, by goading B’Elanna into a display of emotion—any emotion—in front of the handful of crew in the messhall at 0300, he’d torn aside the veil of controlled competency that she’d been hiding behind for way the hell too long. That he’d been putting up with for too long.</p><p>He was used to her being prickly. When they’d first met, back during his few scant weeks piloting Chakotay’s Maquis ship, he’d thought of her as waspish. Ill-tempered and irritable. Joyless. But, stuck together on <em>Voyager</em> he’d realized that most of her seeming bad attitude was due to her frustration and impatience with the people around her. She had a quick mind, and a cutting wit, and he’d grown to enjoy her occasional scathing bursts of temper. </p><p>
  <em>You are senior officers and I expect you to maintain the standard for the rest of the crew, but this adolescent behaviour makes me question my faith in you both.</em>
</p><p>They’d acted like adolescents, but not in the way that the captain had meant when she’d given them that lecture a year ago. He hadn’t seen that passion—either temper or romantic—in a long time, since before they’d entered the void, actually. She’d been pulling away from him, slowly but surely, for months. Their relationship, which had started off giddy and energized and seemingly unconstrained, had become stale and flat. Bland. More habit than compulsion. He wasn’t ready for it to be over, but couldn’t seem to stop himself from pushing her farther away. </p><p>Harry had been in the mess, sitting under the blacked viewport, working on Neelix’ plan to turn cargo bay two into a third holodeck. He’d asked B’Elanna if she’d wanted to help, but she’d turned him down. At the time, Tom had been glad, happy to have her sole company even if it was for yet another pointless game of durada. When their sniping had escalated into a real argument—thrusters to warp ten in under a minute—Tom had welcomed Neelix’ panic attack as a means to a somewhat less than graceful exit from the battlefield. But Harry had butted in, literally, pushing Tom away from Neelix and grabbing the Talaxian by the arm, stating that he would accompany Neelix to sickbay. He’d left Tom and B’Elanna standing in the middle of the mess with everyone staring at them, and had shot Tom a pointed glance before he’d hauled the hyperventilating moral officer out the door. </p><p>Tom’s anger had melted away, replaced by shame. He’d reached for her, hoping to convey his regret for their squabble, but she’d shifted minutely: not out of reach, but certainly out of bounds. He’d let his hand drop back to his side, all feelings of regret and recrimination immediately replaced by wounded pride. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. </p><p>“I’m going to bed,” B’Elanna announced. </p><p>It wasn’t an invitation. She’d turned and left him standing there like an idiot. Like it was all his fault. And it had pissed him off all over again. </p><p>He’d tried to sleep. He’d lain alone in his bed in the darkness with his eyes closed, but thoughts had pinged around his head. Was it his fault? Was it hers? Had their relationship, based on nothing more than sexual attraction, simply fizzled out once that attraction had been explored? They’d been friends first, close friends, and he’d thought they’d managed to keep up that side of their relationship. Until, a few months ago, it had become more than apparent even to him that he seemed to bore her. Irritate her. Was her explanation of needing to work late or run unnecessary diagnostics really just an excuse to not have to spend time with him? What the fuck had he done—or not done—to deserve being treated like a fucking afterthought? </p><p>“Computer…” No, he wasn’t going to check up on her. That was crossing a line; if she said she was going to her quarters, he had to believe that that’s where she was. </p><p>The computer chirped, reminding him of his unfinished command. “Computer, what time is it?” he asked.</p><p>::The time is oh three hundred hours twenty eight minutes::</p><p>“Locate Ensign Harry Kim.”</p><p>::Ensign Kim is in his quarters::</p><p>Tom stood and made for the door. Harry had the ‘big chair’ for the back half of gamma shift, picking up the slack from an absent Captain Janeway, but Tom wasn’t due at the helm for another twelve hours. He had plenty of time to catch a nap. And he needed a distraction from the thoughts looping through his brain.</p><p>***</p><p>“The last time you sat on my couch and listened to me play, you told me you were in love with Kes.” </p><p>Tom frowned, annoyance chewing at his gut. “That was just… infatuation. A crush.”</p><p>“But you are in love with B’Elanna, right?”</p><p>“Of course.” Did he sound convincing? He wasn’t sure. </p><p>“Then why aren’t you acting like it?”</p><p>It was a good question. He’d been trying to wound her, the way her indifference for the last few months had wounded his pride. He didn’t like being ignored. “What do you call this again?” Tom asked. His less than subtle attempt to nudge their conversation into safer territory.</p><p>“<em>Echoes of the Void</em>,” Harry reminded him.</p><p>Tom had heard Harry practicing through the door. Personally, he thought his pacing was off. In Tom’s opinion, Harry’s new composition was too depressing. </p><p>“Did you apologize?” Harry asked. </p><p>Tom had to admire his steadfast single-mindedness. Eyes on the horizon, no detours. He’d be captain yet; they appeared to have a vacancy. “No,” he replied.</p><p>“You know, when you act like an ass to your girlfriend, you’re supposed to apologize. It’s just polite.” Harry peered at him over the lowered clarinet. </p><p>Tom’s lip curled. “Are you going to give me a lesson in etiquette, Harry?” Dissatisfaction bubbled up inside him again. “I didn’t start it.”</p><p>Harry’s expression morphed into a puzzled frown. “Yeah, you did. I heard you.” Silence stretched between them, and Harry sighed. “You know, I left you two together so you could apologize.”</p><p>Tom huffed. That had been obvious. But he didn’t feel like he was the one who should be grovelling. “She started it months ago,” he muttered.</p><p>“Everyone’s been feeling off since we entered the void.” Harry stated.</p><p>“I wish that was it.” Tom stood up from where he’d been sprawled on the couch and shook his head. “Before then, for months, she’s been…” He prowled to Harry’s dining table, paced back toward the couch. “Forget it.” </p><p>“Everyone’s moody lately,” Harry said. “And she’s Klingon. You knew that when you two started this.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Tom agreed. But it was more than that, he was sure; more than the void and her DNA pushing her to be active and take risks. More than her temper or boredom. </p><p>“The way I see it,” Harry ventured, “relationships are like a concerto.” He waggled his clarinet at Tom’s frowning confusion. “My piece is for a soloist. In your case, it’s a composition composed of two soloists, you and B’Elanna, accompanied by an orchestra, the crew. It looks like you’re playing together, but really you each take your turn.”</p><p>Tom squinted as his face puckered. “That makes absolutely no sense. Are you trying to tell me that B’Elanna and I are making depressing music together?” </p><p>“Noooo,” Harry replied, flatly. “A concerto has three parts, three movements: fast, slow, then fast again. <em>Presto, lento</em>, then <em>presto</em>. Or in your case, <em>allegro</em>.”</p><p>“I’m still lost, Harry.” And beginning to think that coming to his friend’s quarters had been a bad idea. </p><p>“When you two first started dating, everything was rushed, a quick tempo, like you could barely squeeze it all in or contain it.”</p><p>That was true, Tom thought. It had been a whirlwind: thrusters to warp ten as soon as he’d kissed her. He’d thought he’d held the universe in his hand. Then everything had mutated into whatever the hell they had now. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It occurred to him that his tongue falling out—to prevent him from speaking—would likely have been a blessing this time around.</p><p>“No one can keep up that kind of momentum,” Harry continued. “You burn out, you just don’t have the stamina. And gradually, you start to slow down. You guys are in the slow phase, the <em>lento</em>.”</p><p>“Great,” Tom said. “What’s <em>allegro</em>, the crash and burn?”</p><p>Harry smiled. “It’s fast again. When a relationship hits its stride, when you’re comfortable and you’ve found your way, but with more... joy,” he concluded. “The joy will come.”</p><p>“I’d be happy if she wasn’t annoyed when I walked into a room. You sure about all this, Harry?” </p><p>“As sure I can be stuck in the middle of nowhere.” He tilted his head and regarded Tom for a moment. “Are you two still, you know, spending time together?” </p><p>Tom’s lip curled. “You saw us spending time together half an hour ago.” </p><p>“You know what I mean.” </p><p>Tom drew back in mock shock, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. “Harry, are you asking me about my and B’Elanna’s sex life?” Was it his imagination, or was Harry turning red? </p><p>“I wouldn’t dare. Isn’t your anniversary coming up?” Harry asked. “You should plan something nice.” </p><p>He had. He’d designed his Captain Proton holoprogramme with her in mind. Originally, he’d thought to cast her as Constance Goodheart, his secretary and companion, and occasional damsel-in-distress. But B’Elanna wasn’t really the damsel type. He’d decided that she was better suited to the role of Buster, his sidekick. They would have adventures together solving intergalactic crime and stopping evil bad guys from destroying… stuff. She’d caught him tinkering with the programme one day, and asked him about it, and after attempting a subtle subterfuge—trying to pass it off as a training programme for Tuvok’s security team—he’d come clean and said it was meant to be like the old serial tele-novels of the 1940’s and ‘50’s. He’d said that he thought she might have fun battling intergalactic evil with him. </p><p>She’d turned him down flat and told him to ask Harry. Looking back now, Tom could see that that was the point when he’d given up. </p><p>“I’m due on the bridge,” Harry reminded him. </p><p>Tom followed him out the door. </p><p>***</p><p>When the lights had first gone out, he’d thought the programme had somehow overloaded the hologrid. Thankfully, Captain Proton’s space ship had included a flashlight. When he’d spotted the alien hiding in the dark, he’d been stunned into immobility. It wasn’t part of any programme he knew of; it shouldn’t have been there, and he’d wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. The searing pain he’d felt at the blast from the alien’s weapon told him that it was all too real. Unconsciousness had been a blessing. </p><p>Seven had all but dragged him to sickbay, and he’d been glad of her Borg-enhanced strength. </p><p>The Doc had said that his burns were severe, but they’d been quickly treated. A dose of analgesic, another of cordrazine, a few passes with the dermal regenerator, and he was right as rain. The ship shuddered in a way that felt like they were under enemy fire, and his first thought was for B’Elanna’s safety. When Seven had returned to sickbay with the alien, he’d thrown off the Doc’s concern and hopped down from the bio bed. “I want you to rest!” the Doctor had said to his retreating back. Tom had headed for the bridge. </p><p>Tom’s ears had twitched when Chakotay had called B’Elanna up from engineering. They hadn’t bothered with a full bridge complement since their third week in the Void, and she’d questioned the order, saying she was busy—finally, truly needed—down below. Tom had turned his head as she’d crossed the bridge to take her station, and he’d been surprised to catch her looking at him, too. Had she heard that he’d been injured? He’d raised an eyebrow, a silent question asking her if she, if they, were alright. She’d smiled slightly in return, and the relief he’d felt had been palpable. They may not be fixed, but the sense of purpose the situation with Malon gave them helped. He hoped. </p><p>Chakotay had warned them, but Janeway’s plan had been ridiculous. It had sounded more  like a lesson in self-flagellation than a viable alternative to closing the vortex. He’d glanced at B’Elanna again, and she’d looked truly pissed off. His heart had pounded when he’d refused to follow Janeway’s order, and he’d felt <em>alive</em> again for the first time in weeks.: his blood pounding in his veins, adrenaline coursing through his system, his sense of rightness and duty firmly in place even if he was breaking protocol. </p><p>When it was over, they were two hundred kilometers from the edge of normal space, coasting on thrusters after the loss of the port nacelle. He’d heard the bridge doors open, then B’Elanna’s voice behind him as he’d pointed out a tiny spark of light in the endless black. </p><p>“Where?” </p><p>She’d come down to stand beside him as the entire bridge crew was transfixed by the viewscreen, and her hand had landed on his shoulder. She’d simply rested it there, and the heat from her palm had flowed through the cloth of his uniform jacket and warmed him. </p><p>It was beautiful. Awe inspiring. Distant suns sparkling, and clouds of dust and gasses colouring the vista in greys and greens and purples. A visual feast after two months of black and grey monochrome. She hadn’t moved away, and Tom reached a hand up to cover hers. </p><p>“Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked quietly, not wanting his invitation to carry to the Captain and the rest of the bridge crew. It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure what time it was. Seven AM? Noon? Dinner could be a long way away. </p><p>“I… with the port nacelle blown…” she began.</p><p>“Not a big deal. Just a quiet dinner in my quarters. It can be quick. We don’t even have to have dessert. You have to eat.” He tried a little smile. “We don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to; I just want to be with you.” </p><p>She stilled. Sometimes her thoughts were reflected on her face. “Okay. But I really will be busy with repairs.” </p><p>“I thought I ordered you to rest, Lieutenant,” the Doctor cut in. “Now that the excitement is over, I’m ordering you to go to your quarters and take a nap.”</p><p>“I’m fine, Doc,” Tom tried. After two months of piloting <em>Voyager</em> through nothingness, he didn’t want to budge from the bridge; he didn’t want to miss anything. </p><p>“Those burns were severe. I realize that my skill at plastic surgery has resulted in you restoring your boyish good looks, but you suffered damage to your hypodermis. It will take a few more days of natural healing as well as a few more sessions with the dermal regenerator before the connective tissue truly healed.”</p><p>Tom wanted to argue, but the flare of alarm in B’Elanna’s eyes wasn’t a bad thing. Weighed against sitting the rest of his shift at the conn, he’d take her concern any day.</p><p>“You’re relieved, Lieutenant Paris,” Janeway ordered. “Chakotay, take the helm.” </p><p>“Gladly,” he responded. He moved forward, and Tom had no choice but to acquiesce. </p><p>“I’ll make sure he gets there,” B’Elanna said. Once they were safely inside the turbolift, she turned toward him, anger stiffening her posture. “You were burned?” </p><p>“I’m fine,” he said. She simply stared at him until he told her. “I ran into one of those Void aliens. His weapon packed a bit of a punch.”</p><p>His attempt at levity fell flat. “Why didn’t you tell me?” </p><p>He could sense her frustration, her building anger. It was better than the studied indifference she’d cloaked herself in lately.  He shrugged, deciding on honesty. “I wasn’t sure you’d care.” </p><p>“Of course I care!” </p><p>She’d been stunned by that, but Tom just shrugged. Lately, it hadn’t seemed to him that she cared about anything. He wanted to call her on it, but realized that he didn’t have the energy. </p><p>The lift stopped on his deck, and stepped off. “I can find my own way,” he said. </p><p>She hadn’t moved to follow him anyway.</p><p>*** </p><p>Tom had set the table simply: no candles, but he had put a vase of flowers, good old simple Earth daisies, in the centre and replicated their dinner: a peanut butter sandwich for himself, and banana pancakes for her. She was late. </p><p>He wasn’t sure if he should comm her or not, but as the minutes ticked by as he stared at his door, he gave in.</p><p>“Paris to Torres. Have you been held up?” </p><p>“<em>It looks like the repairs to the port nacelle are more complicated than we first thought. There was a chain reaction that sent a surge through the entire system</em>.”</p><p>She couldn’t hand it off to Carey or Nicoletti? But he understood; this was the first time in months she actually had something concrete to do. “So, you’re going to be late?” There was pause, and Tom knew her answer before she said it.</p><p>“<em>I’m sorry, I’m going to have to cancel. You should be resting tonight anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.</em>” She clicked off without saying goodbye. </p><p>Hurt and disappointment welled inside him. Fuck! He had the childish desire to sweep the contents of the table to the deck. To scream his frustration! </p><p>This time, he didn’t hesitate. He raised his head to the ceiling. “Computer, locate Lieutenant Torres.”</p><p>::Lieutenant Torres is in holodeck two::</p><p>So much for the port nacelle. Anger hardened his jaw. Fuck it, he thought. Fuck it all. He sat at the table in the spot he’d set for B’Elanna and removed the cover from the plate. He doused the pancakes in syrup and cut a large chunk, then shoved it in his mouth and chewed. </p><p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. METAMORPHOSIS - VINYL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: set sometime shortly before Faces.</p><p>*****</p><p>She’d heard the rumors, of course. It was a well known truism that a ship didn’t run on warp power, it ran on gossip whispered by its crew. Engineering, as well as housing the warp core—which did indeed help in propelling <em>Voyager</em> along through the dark of uncharted space—made up a third of the ship’s crew complement. She’d heard the rumors. </p><p>She watched as Tom Paris lounged against a workstation his, admittedly fine, ass perched against the edge of the display panel, arms loosely folded across his chest, shoulders relaxed, long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. He was holding a PADD in one hand and flirting with Ensign Swinn, who was apparently ignoring him as he chatted. But Swinn was smiling slightly, and B’Elanna was pretty sure it wasn’t because she was pleased with the results scrolling on her screen. There was a bug in the programme, a gremlin in the machine, and they were having trouble finding it. </p><p>The collimator had been ‘acting up’, according to Joe Carey. He’d said it in a way that made B’Elanna think of small children and tantrums. It hadn’t shorted out—yet—but power levels had been fluctuating for the last two days. They were still within normal parameters but ‘good enough’ simply wasn’t when they were stuck seventy years from friendly space. They needed a working deflector. They’d run several diagnostics over the last two days. Swinn was running one now on the induction stabilizer, and B’Elanna had patched through to her station so she could read the results as they came in. It wasn’t telling her anything that she didn’t already know. Neither did Tom Paris’ little display. </p><p>He had a reputation. And she’d always believed that reputations were partly earned. They’d met during his short-lived stint with her Maquis cell and she hadn’t been impressed by him then, either. Seska had taken one look at him and announced that he was just what B’Elanna needed to ‘grease her gears’ and help her work off her aggression toward the Federation. As if. Cocky, conceited, and usually hungover, he’d been an irritant to her. Sand in her lubricant. The man appeared to have the morals of an alley cat, and she wasn’t about to be his ‘most recent’ on a long list. Neither, apparently, was Swinn. </p><p>They’d intercepted a subspace message about Paris’ capture. It was a loss for them: Paris was a talented pilot who stayed calm and focused in a firefight. They’d out-maneuvered and outrun a Defiant class ship just a few days before, and Chakotay had wondered at the bad luck Paris had brought upon himself, at how he’d been unable to give the ship the slip. </p><p>He’d been running supplies to one of their bases in the Badlands, and was caught by a Federation ship after only three weeks with the Maquis. B’Elanna had worried that the old class two shuttle he’d been piloting had failed, leaving Paris without a way to escape. She’d thought it might have been her fault. </p><p>When that same base in the Badlands had been attacked two days later, it’s inhabitants killed or captured by the Cardassians, Paris’ capture had made a bit more sense. Seska was certain he’d been a Starfleet plant, a spy sent to infiltrate the Maquis and destroy them, part of an undercover military operation between the Federation and the Cardassians. B’Elanna hadn’t been so sure: if he were a Federation spy, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to stay with them longer, ferret out more information and pass it along rather than hit just that one small base? They’d been on tenterhooks waiting for a major pushback by the Feds and Cardassians. It hadn’t come. They’d shut down their contact point on Veloz and posted extra security at the settlement on Athos IV. Nothing. </p><p>She’d come to believe that Paris, despite his skill as a pilot, had simply suffered a spell of bad luck on that supply run. Then she’d run into him again, seventy thousand light years from the Badlands, on a stairwell in the bowels of Ocampa. In a ‘fleet uniform, chatting with <em>Voyager’s</em> captain via his combadge, and acting for all the world like he was in charge of that rescue mission. She’d have killed him then and there if she’d had the strength. </p><p>They’d managed to merge into a crew, one that worked fairly well together when they had to. There were still bumps, still friction, but everyone had put on the uniform and pretended that they were going to make it home, eventually. They’d set their goal and were determined to reach it. And though they stuck mostly to their own, Maquis and Starfleet, there were some nascent friendships developing, ties being formed, distances breached. Despite her misgivings, after their experience on Ocampa, she and Harry Kim had become fast friends. Unfortunately, so had Harry and Tom Paris. </p><p>She glared at him now. He was still lounging against Swinn’s workstation, his white teeth gleaming as he smiled, blue eyes twinkling in amusement. He was relating some story, waving the hand without the PADD in the air. Her eyes were drawn to his long fingers and broad shoulders. There was no mistaking that he was attractive, and that his practiced easy-going manner suckered some of the ship’s crew into thinking that he was a nice guy despite the rumors that swirled about him. Harry certainly thought he was. So did Swinn, obviously, since she was still smiling at him. </p><p>So did Janeway: she’d made him her chief helm officer. Of course, Janeway had also made B’Elanna herself chief engineer, but really, Carey had been her only other option. He was a competent engineer, but a little too by-the-book for the Delta Quadrant. Tom Paris was not by-the-book. Oh, he could play at being a good officer, he knew the rules and regulations and could behave in public. But she’d seen him in the Maquis, smelled the bitterness and self-pity off him, experienced his defensiveness when she’d confronted him about Harry Kim’s persistent friendship. Not that it was her job to look out for Harry. But she’d heard rumours… </p><p>Rumours that Paris was Special Ops, that the accident at Caldik Prime had been an assasination attempt, that it hadn’t happened at all. That he’d been working for Janeway all along. That he was her half-brother, the product of an affair between his mother and her father. That he was her son, the result of her affair with his father. She would have been what? Twelve? Thirteen?</p><p>One rumour had stuck: that he had been Janeway’s lover after they’d first been pulled into the Delta Quadrant. That he still was and his pursuit of half the female crew contingent was merely a smoke screen. The idea was ridiculous. Janeway had worked under Tom’s father when Tom was still a child. She was captain of a Starfleet ship, alone in a hostile quadrant, cut off from Starfleet Command—though another rumour had it that their being ‘stranded’ here was part of a secret mission that only she, and maybe Tuvok, the real Starfleet spy, knew about. She had to pull together not just the remnants of her own crew but Chakotay’s as well. She wouldn’t risk that, risk the respect of both crews, by fucking Tom Paris on her off hours. </p><p>Plus, he was fucking Tom Paris! She frowned, and Paris chose that moment to glance toward her. Their eyes met, and he raised an eyebrow, all perplexed innocence and openness. She’d like to ‘open him up’ and show Swinn just how ‘innocent’ he really was! </p><p>“I believe I have discovered the root of the problem, Lieutenant.” </p><p>Ensign Vorik appeared at her elbow. He had a habit of doing that: popping up seemingly from nowhere and startling her when she was engrossed in something and hadn't noticed his arrival. Not that she was engrossed in Tom Paris. Vorik was Vulcan and Starfleet and young, for a Vulcan anyway. She’d read his personnel file. <em>Voyager</em> was his first posting. He’d spent a year at McKinley Station fitting and finishing her warp systems, and his knowledge about the ship had been invaluable to her. Too bad he creeped her out a little bit. Vulcans were… too contained. Too constrained. She couldn’t read him; had no idea what he was thinking at any given moment, and it threw her off balance. At least with Tom Paris, she always knew where she stood.</p><p>At the moment, Vorik stood, unblinking, thirty centimetres from her nose. Did all Vulcans disregard personal space, or was he overcompensating in order to fit in with the mostly human crew? She didn’t care; she took a step to the side. </p><p>“What is it?” she asked. </p><p>“It appears that a clamp used to align the relay plates in the induction stabilizer failed causing the diodes to slip to the left by forty seven degrees, coming into contact with the internal housing. This in turn caused an arc of electrons, which resulted in a feedback loop within the system—”</p><p>B’Elanna cut him off with a chopping motion of her hand. “Failed?” This was a brand new ship! How the hell had something ‘failed’ for no reason? </p><p>“It has broken into two pieces.” </p><p>Vorik held out his open palm. She clearly saw the two pieces of the U-shaped clamp, and the clean break that had separated them. She reached for one and examined the sheared edge. </p><p>“But I thought those clips were made out of mercassium. How the hell did it snap in half?” </p><p>Vorik’s eyebrow pulled upward. “I have not speculated upon the circumstances that led to the failure of the clamp. I thought it best to bring it to your attention immediately.” </p><p>B’Elanna sighed. “Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s what your combadge is for!” She dropped the piece of clamp back into his palm. “If we don’t know <em>why</em> it broke, we have no way of preventing it from happening in the future. When we’re in the middle of a battle with a hostile alien. Or stuck in some sort of spatial anomaly. So why don’t you go back up to the dish and figure out how a piece of mercassium could have broken, okay?” </p><p>Two days of chasing gremlins through kilometers of tubing and examining enough isolinear chips to tile <em>Voyager</em> in rainbow armour, and it didn’t even cross his mind to <em>speculate</em> on the cause of the problem! She rolled her eyes, and caught Paris openly staring at the two of them. Great. </p><p>“Of course, Lieutenant. However, I should point out to you that the clip is not made of mercassium.” </p><p>That brought her up short. “What?” she huffed. </p><p>“I have already run a scan of its chemical structure. It is composed of two parts carbon, three parts hydrogen and one part chlorine.” </p><p>“Polyvinyl chloride?” B’Elanna’s mouth hung open in shock. “They built a ship to withstand the stresses of maneuvering through the Badlands and outfitted the deflector array with plastic cotter pins?!”</p><p>“Polychloroethylene, to be precise,” Vorik corrected her. </p><p>Fury tightened her gut. It wasn’t him she was mad at, not really. It wasn’t even Tom Paris, with his eyebrow climbing toward his hair in his impersonation of Vulcan. It probably wasn’t even the dolts who had outfitted the ship with fucking plastic parts, but they were a close second! She was frustrated by life in general, by everything and nothing. </p><p>“Just…” She breathed: in, out, in, out. “Head back up there and check every one of those clamps.” </p><p>“Of course, Lieutenant.” </p><p>“All of them, do you understand me?” she continued. “I want you to scan each one individually and check for stress fractures. And while you’re there, you can look to see if they’ve damaged the relay plates.” Vorik nodded but didn’t make any move to step away and follow her order. “Now!” she barked.</p><p>He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and turned and headed toward the door. “And take Swinn with you,” she added. </p><p>“A little hard on him, weren't you?” </p><p>Paris had come up behind her, and pitched his voice low. She still felt twitchy, adrenaline still coursed through her from her little chat with Vorik, and she didn’t like the way Tom’s voice made her nerve endings sing. Or the way he stood so close to her, so she could hear his quiet admonishment. </p><p>“He’s one of my senior officers. He should have known better than to come to me with an incomplete report,” she muttered.</p><p>“Senior officer?” Tom scoffed. “He’s an ensign.”</p><p>“So’s Harry,” she shot back. “Besides, unless the captain wants to hand out promotions like… like…” </p><p>“Popcorn?” Tom offered.</p><p>She ignored his comment. She had no idea what ‘pop’ corn was and didn’t care to find out. “Junior officers are about all we have right now. Anyway, he’s Vulcan; he doesn’t care if I yell at him or not.” She punched a series of commands into her console, hoping he’d get the hint and go away.</p><p>“Then why do it? Isn’t the whole point to intimidate him?” He sighed. “You’re the chief engineer, everyone on this ship looks up to you. You set an example, not just for your staff, but for the entire crew.” </p><p>She turned her head and gave him her full attention, her jaw lifting, features hardening. His own mouth tightened, then he pressed on. </p><p>“It demoralizes the crew when their senior officer loses their cool. And we’re pretty demoralized as it is around here.”</p><p><em>Loses their cool</em>? she thought. She folded her arms across her chest, not trusting her hands not to ball into fists if she didn’t tuck them against her ribs. A month ago, she, Seska, and Carey had been part of a plot to steal space-folding technology from a Delta Quadrant species whose government had refused to share. Technology that, ultimately, hadn’t worked with <em>Voyager’s</em> systems and had almost caused a warp core breach. Tom had warned her not to accept the black market offer by one of the planet’s citizens, but she’d been blinded by the possibility that they could shave decades off of their trip home. She’d had to try. </p><p>“Go ahead and say it, Paris,” she said. “Tell me how you think Janeway made a mistake in making me chief.” </p><p>His forehead wrinkled in confusion. “B’Elanna, if not for you, we’d still be stuck in that quantum singularity. I was in those briefings; the captain making you chief engineer was the smartest thing she’s done so far.” </p><p>What did he mean by that, she wondered. But she did know. Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” she agreed. “She couldn’t just have one Maquis on the senior staff, could she?” </p><p>Tom frowned, then sighed. “I can’t win,” he muttered. “I was trying to give you a compliment. In fact, temper aside, I’ve been impressed by how well you’ve taken this on. By how well you’ve fit in.” </p><p>She folded her arms and stared at him. “For an Academy dropout and Maquis, you mean?” </p><p>He scrunched his eyes closed. His jaw clenched again, and she spotted a vein bulge in his temple. </p><p>“For someone who didn’t have Starfleet command training,” his words were soft and precise. “For someone who’s had to learn the systems of a brand new, state-of-the-art ship while juggling melding a crew of more than fifty people, <em>and</em> meeting the expectations of a demanding captain and first officer all while dealing with being in a hostile quadrant of the galaxy.” </p><p>He tilted his head and those remarkably vibrant blue eyes swept her features, her shoulders, stopped at the combage secured to her chest, then jerked back up to meet hers. “Even the captain loses her temper sometimes,” he said, “but most of the people on the bridge wouldn’t know it. You just need to get a little better at hiding it.”</p><p>She snorted. “What’s the matter, Paris, scared I’ll yell at you for flying too close to a nebula and blowing out the sensors?”</p><p>His mouth twitched. “Your temper doesn’t scare me, Torres. It didn’t a year ago, and it doesn’t now.”</p><p>She didn’t know what to say to that comment so she ignored it and turned back to her console. “Why are you in my engine room, Paris? Don’t you have a ship to fly?”</p><p>“Wellll…,” he drawled, “since we’re coasting on thrusters, I thought it was safe to let Baytart drive. My helm report.” He offered her the PADD. </p><p>She didn’t bother to look at it. “You could have just sent it to my comm channel.”</p><p>“I could have,” he agreed, “but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of pissing you off by flirting with a member of your senior staff.” Her head snapped around at that, but his expression was guileless. “You’ve changed,” he said. “You’re not like you were then.”</p><p>She stilled, not really acknowledging his words, but listening all the same.</p><p>“You’re good at this, B’Elanna: taking charge, running your crew, staying on top of everything. You’re better at running <em>Voyager’s</em> engine room than you were on Chakotay’s little wasp.”</p><p>He’d completely disarmed her with that compliment. “It helps to have a trained staff,” she said. </p><p>He grinned at that, a small laugh forcing a puff of air and a genuine smile from him. “Yeah,” he said, “I agree. Anyway,” he waggled the PADD in the air before he set it on the console, “I should get back. You never know when Pablo might crack under the strain and head for the nearest nebula.”</p><p>He turned toward the main doors, and she called after him. “Tom!” </p><p>He stopped and turned back toward her, his expression closed, guarded. “Yeah?”</p><p>She wanted to tell him that she thought the captain was right to trust him, too, when she’d made him responsible for <em>Voyager’s</em> pilots. She wanted to say that he’d changed from that washed up, bitter man she’d known briefly a year ago. She wanted to trust Harry’s instincts that there was something honourable, something salvageable, in Tom Paris. But she wasn’t sure she believed it; wasn’t sure she hadn’t just been played by a master manipulator. </p><p>“Thanks,” she said instead. </p><p>He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded and walked away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. COFFEE SHOP - POPCORN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: the doctor referenced is not the Doctor. And while I originally made him a female midwife, I figured that any place as regimented as Quarra likely wouldn’t use them. Plus, she (the doctor) and she (B’Elanna) was confusing. </p>
<p>***** </p>
<p>At first the rain had been no more than a light drizzle and B’Elanna hadn’t even bothered to flip up the hood of her jacket. The soft droplets felt good on her face, refreshing, and lent the air a fresh, clean scent. Sunshine slanted through the haze and she saw rainbows everywhere. They made her smile. Then the wind picked up and the heavens seemed to open. People on the crowded sidewalk started to scurry for shelter, and B’Elanna pulled her hood over her head and tried to close the jacket over her burgeoning belly. She wondered why people hadn’t been warned of the unexpected drenching; surely a planet so advanced and regulated as Quarra had a weather net in place. </p>
<p>It was the first time it had rained since she’d arrived here, and her first thought was, at least it’s good for the trees. Her second was that, aside from the occasional planter filled with small shrubs, she hadn’t seen a tree, or a lawn, or a flower bed, which also seemed odd. She’d have to make a point to get out of the city with the baby every once in a while, head out to the country for the day, when he or she was old enough to enjoy it. </p>
<p>The baby was growing at a steady rate, or at least her belly was. It was time to get a larger jacket. She was gaining weight, though not as much as the doctor wanted her to. In fact, between her initial intake check up when she was hired at the power distribution facility and her first appointment with the company doctor, she’d lost two kilos, a situation which had made the doctor unhappy. When questioned about Klingon pregnancies, B’Elanna had had to admit that she didn’t know, not for certain, anyway. <em>Thirty weeks</em> rang a bell, but with her human DNA in the mix, it was anyone’s guess how soon the baby was due. When asked, she’d been too embarrassed to admit that she couldn’t remember how far along she was, and had said seventeen weeks simply to have something to say. The doctor, already peeved at her not having a copy of her medical files, had nodded. </p>
<p>Quarran days not being the same length as Earth ones, they’d had to work out the math. He’d insisted that she come for an appointment weekly, and despite her dislike of being poked and prodded B’Elanna had relented. She didn’t want to do anything that might put her baby at risk. Three weeks on, she’d regained those lost kilos plus some, and she’d been relieved.</p>
<p>The doctor’s other order had been to eat six small meals a day, something that she found harder to do since she had a tendency to get absorbed in her work and forget about the time. But as she walked along the crowded sidewalk headed back to her apartment—her shift didn’t start for another four hours—she realized that she was hungry, and the rain, plus the baby pressing on her bladder, convinced her that stopping in one of the cafes or restaurants that lined the busy pedestrian square was a good idea. </p>
<p>She ducked under the raised platform of a metal staircase and shook out her jacket, flicking the raindrops from it. It was supposed to be waterproof, but her arms and shoulders were damp right through the cloth. An older man jostled her on his way to the staircase leading underground to the lower transport level, the look of exasperation he sent her for blocking the stairway morphing into embarrassment once he noticed the prominent bulge of her belly. He nodded at her, and she smiled at him. </p>
<p>“Forgive me,” he said. </p>
<p>“It’s fine,” she replied, placing a hand on her belly. She was fine after the slight knock to her shoulder, and in a mood to forgive him. His eyes dipped downward again, and with another nod he started to move away.</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” she stopped him. “Is there a restaurant nearby? Somewhere where I can get out of the rain.”</p>
<p>He directed her to a little coffee shop across the square. Through the slanting rain she saw a squat grey building squeezed between two other grey buildings, noticed the warm glow of lights through a picture window and the tables and chairs arranged on the patio area, which should have been a giveaway. She thanked him, and he went on his way. The rain had let up slightly but showed no signs of stopping soon, so she pulled the sides of her jacket together as best she could and dashed out into the wet. </p>
<p>The rain had turned colder as the temperature dropped, and it was far from pleasant now. She pulled open the door and stood in the entryway as she surveyed the full cafe. She pushed her streaming hood down, and flapped the open rain jacket, trying to shed as much water as she could before she moved further into the restaurant. All of the tables appeared occupied, and there was a crowd lining the dining counter that ran the length of the room. Every stool was filled and people stood in clusters waiting to order. Damn. </p>
<p>Her eyes skipped around the room; maybe someone was sitting alone and was willing to share their table. Then she saw him: the bartender who had taken such an interest in her. Tom. He was seated at a small table, alone, head bent, engrossed in a PADD. She stood frozen just inside the doorway, debating what to do. Stay, and ask to join him? Go before he noticed her waffling in the entryway? She waited a bit too long. </p>
<p>Tom glanced up as a server walked by his table. She saw the moment he noticed her in the crowd: his eyes crinkled at the corners as a wide smile lit his up face. He looked delighted to see her. He raised a hand and stood, calling her name. “B’Elanna.”</p>
<p>She couldn’t be outright rude. She moved toward him, her mouth pulled into an answering smile, though one that was somewhat more subdued than his. </p>
<p>“Hi,” he said. He looked her up and down, from her dripping hair to the puddle forming on the floor under the soles of her boots. </p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” she asked. It was only after she’d said it that she realized how rude that sounded. She softened it with another tentative smile. “I mean, I didn’t expect to see you here when I walked in.”</p>
<p>“I don’t live in the bar you know.” He grinned and gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Unless you’re meeting someone…?” </p>
<p>“No. Thank you. But I don’t want to interrupt you.” She nodded at the PADD that he’d set on the table. </p>
<p>He pushed it to the side. “You’re not.” </p>
<p>She put her bag on the table, and slipped off her jacket and shook it once again, then draped it over the back of the chair. She didn’t sit though, and she scanned the back of the shop, behind the lunch counter. </p>
<p>“You are meeting someone,” he stated. He sounded disappointed, but like he was trying to hide it. </p>
<p>“No, I—” Her hand rubbed her belly and she shifted from one foot to the other. “I just need to…” </p>
<p>He clued in with an ‘ohhh’ and nodded. “It’s back there, behind the display of take out mugs and packaged cookies,” he said. She figured that, working at Umali’s bar, he was probably used to people asking for directions to the bathroom. </p>
<p>“How do I know you’re not going to sneak out the back door while you’re gone?”</p>
<p>She caught the teasing glint in his eyes and smiled. “You don’t.” She nodded to her coat, then grabbed her bag and slipped past him, headed for the back of the shop. A few minutes later, bladder relieved and her hair tidied, she made her way through the press of people toward his table. There was a carafe of coffee sitting there now, and a smaller jug of cream and two mugs. The table was crammed with a large plate of small sandwiches, a bowl of mixed fresh fruit, and something that looked suspiciously like a platter of small round dough balls in syrup. She eyed the place setting at her spot. </p>
<p>“The server saw you join me; he brought the extra plate and mug when he brought my lunch.” That smile was back.</p>
<p>Her eyebrow climbed. “You were planning to eat all of this yourself?” </p>
<p>Tom shrugged. “Any leftovers, I was going to take back to my lodgings. Umali’s food is good but I get tired of a steady diet of it.” He watched her waffle, and sobered. “There’s more than enough,” he said. “Please sit. We can split the bill if you like.” </p>
<p>“Okay. Since you have enough to share.” She slid into the chair as Tom poured the coffee. “What are you reading?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Just a novel.” He handed her her mug and their fingers brushed. </p>
<p>She felt a little zap of something; something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She took a gulp of the hot liquid to hide her reaction. Her face puckered: it was strong with a bitter aftertaste. </p>
<p>“Here,” Tom said, pushing the cream pitcher and a bowl of sweetener toward her. “It’s a little… thick. I don’t think Quarran taste buds are as attuned to bitterness as Human. Or Klingon…?” He raised an eyebrow in question.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she confirmed, pouring cream and sweetener into her mug and stirring. “I mean, my mother is Klingon, but my father is human. How did you know that?” No one else she’d met here had even heard of Klingons.</p>
<p>Tom shook his head and gestured to his forehead, but she knew that her ridges were far less pronounced than a full-blooded Klingon. And besides, she hadn’t seen any other Klingons in the city, and her doctor had admitted that she was the first he’d treated. </p>
<p>“I just knew.” He shrugged, then turned in his chair and pointed to two men sharing another table. “See that big guy with the blue skin? He’s Bolian. And the man with the pointy ears is Vulcan.” He straightened and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “They’re a little uptight,” he said. </p>
<p>She tried her newly doctored coffee; it was better but still not very good. </p>
<p>“I can order some tea if you rather?” Tom said.</p>
<p>She shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I've just been craving raktajino and everything else tastes a bit bland in comparison.”</p>
<p>His head tilted. “I’ve never heard of it. What is it?” </p>
<p>“A Klingon coffee,” she said. “It’s strong but not bitter, and has a nutty flavour that sweetens it just a bit. I like it with whipped cream on top.” She suddenly felt a little silly detailing her coffee craving to a virtual stranger, but he was smiling at her, and she took a bite of a sandwich so she wouldn’t have to say anything else. She found she was ravenously hungry. She selected three more and put them on her plate, and Tom passed her the bowl of fruit. “You’re eating for two,” he said. </p>
<p>She laughed. “That’s not really the way that works.” </p>
<p>“Oh, I almost forgot.” His face lit up, and she decided that she liked how expressive it was, how his emotions were reflected in his eyes “I spoke to those people I met at Umali’s, the couple expecting the baby? They said they’d love to meet with you tomorrow afternoon, before your shift.” </p>
<p>She nodded and swallowed. “That would be great,” she said. “Tell me about your novel.” </p>
<p>“Ah…” He glanced at the PADD. “It’s about a guy who has a little cargo vessel who gets suckered into fighting with the good guys in an interplanetary war. He’s sort of half pirate, half hero, and half ne'er do well.” That smile was back.</p>
<p>“Is that what you’d like to do?” she asked, “Have your own ship? Run cargo and have adventures?” He didn’t really look like the type who would want to settle down.</p>
<p>Tom shook his head. “Me? Fly my own ship? No. I get space sick. I want to put down roots and stay right here.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” For some reason, that declaration made her sad, and brought the threat of tears. She plucked another sandwich from the plate. </p>
<p>“What about you, any plans to hop a freighter and join the heroic side of an interplanetary conflict?” </p>
<p>He was teasing, of course. He smiled again, his eyes warm and twinking with humour, and her stomach did a little flip. The baby must be kicking again, she decided. She put a hand on her belly and rubbed, and, on cue, she felt a little ripple, a tiny movement as the baby shoved back, and she laughed. At Tom’s confused frown, she explained, “The baby. It’s kicking.” </p>
<p>“Really?” he asked. “Can I…?” He reached toward her.</p>
<p>She stiffened, and he was immediately contrite and froze. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have… I mean, I guess that’s not really—”</p>
<p>“No,” she cut in. “It’s okay.” </p>
<p>He reached tentatively toward her belly and she caught his hand and guided it to the rounded swell of her left side. He spread his fingers and pressed his palm lightly against her tummy. She felt the heat of his hand through her shirt, felt the contained strength of his arm where she gripped his wrist. She covered his hand with her own and pressed his hand more firmly against her belly, and the baby responded with a firmer kick this time. Tom’s eyes went round in awe, and his mouth dropped open. </p>
<p>Their gazes locked, and she found herself sharing his excitement, his contagious amazement and wonder. His hand settled on her stomach, and his fingers pressed lightly, pushing back against the baby’s knee or foot or elbow. She’d never shared this moment with anyone else before.</p>
<p>She stilled and dropped her hand from his. What in Kahless’ name was she doing? She didn’t like people touching her. She certainly hadn’t allowed anyone to touch her belly besides the doctor. Tom Paris was a total stranger to her and here she was, placing his hand on her belly in the middle of a crowded cafe! Was she crazy? But… it was unlikely that he was planning to kidnap her in the middle of the street. <em>He might</em> a little voice in her head said.</p>
<p>The look of wonder on his face answered her question, the soft light that had entered his eyes reassuring her. </p>
<p>He laughed softly, delighted. “She’s going to be an athlete,” he said. </p>
<p>“She?” B’Elanna raised an eyebrow, amused by the certainty in his tone. </p>
<p>“Yeah. It’s a girl. Isn’t it?” </p>
<p>She laughed at that. “The doctor can’t tell yet,” she teased. </p>
<p>Tom looked confused. “I thought there was a scanner that could tell you?”</p>
<p>“If there is, the doctor is keeping it a secret.”  </p>
<p>“Huh.” He shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll find out in a few months.” </p>
<p>An older couple walked past their table on their way to the exit and smiled at them, and B’Elanna glanced away. </p>
<p>“I guess we will,” she agreed. <em>We</em>. This was a dangerous game she was playing, she realized, pretending that she and Tom were involved, that he was her baby’s father. Because that was what it looked like to anyone observing them. That was what that couple had assumed. </p>
<p>A feeling of longing hit her suddenly, and a swell of sadness. The baby’s father had run as fast as he could when she’d told him she was pregnant… She had told him. Hadn’t she? Of course, she must have. And he’d said that it was her problem…? It was fuzzy, a half-formed memory that she didn’t want to dwell on, so she pushed it aside and chose to focus on the kind, attractive man who was interested in her and her baby. And she didn’t want to question why that was. </p>
<p>Tom had removed his hand and had straightened in his chair. “Try these,” he said, pushing the plate of small, one-bite pastries toward her. She plucked one from the sticky mass and observed it. “They’re filled with a flavoured cream,” he explained. “They’re not as sweet as they look; I can eat them like popcorn.” </p>
<p>“Popcorn?” She popped the dough ball into her mouth. The syrup was sweet, yes, but there was a spiciness there too that balanced the sweetness. She bit into the dough and a sour-sweet fruity flavour exploded on her tongue. It was delicious! She immediately wanted more. She looked up into Tom’s delighted grin. He motioned toward the bowl. <em>have some more</em>. She did, spooning a large serving onto her plate. </p>
<p>“Popcorn is an Earth delicacy,” he said. “One of the few things I miss from home. It’s the dried seeds of one variety of corn plant. A cereal grain. You cook it at a high heat and it expands and sort of explodes, and forms these crunchy little balls. You can have it spiced or it can be sweetened with drizzled chocolate, or candy, or whatever. But it’s best served hot with melted butter and salt.”</p>
<p>B’Elanna had stilled as he waxed poetic about popped corn seeds and various toppings, and she laughed at the expression on his face when he finally quieted: slightly confused and embarrassed, as if he couldn't believe, either, that he’d gone on so long about it. “Sounds like you’re quite a fan,” she said. </p>
<p>“Well, like I said, it’s one of the few things I miss about my old life.” He stared at the remains of his lunch on his plate, then glanced back up at her. “Is there anything you miss about your life before you moved here?” </p>
<p>She shook her head. “No.” </p>
<p>Tom nodded. He seemed hesitant, wary. “Not even the baby’s father?”</p>
<p>She stiffened, bringing her shoulders back, her chin up. “It doesn’t have one.” At Tom’s frown, she explained. “He chose to leave us, and I realized that I don’t need him.” She dropped a hand to her belly and rubbed. “We don’t need him. We’ll be just fine on our own.” </p>
<p>Tom frowned, and she thought she saw regret on his face. “He was a fool; I can’t imagine anyone leaving y—” He stopped abruptly and sobred. “Well, if there’s anything you two need, an escort to the doctor or,” he gestured to the empty platters on the table, “lunch, just let me know. You know where to find me.” </p>
<p>“That’s sweet,” she answered, “but not necessary. The transport stops at my apartment building, and the doctor’s office is on the way to the factory. Annnnd,” she drawled, “I can usually feed myself just fine.” She tempered her refusal with a quick smile. It wasn’t a good idea to allow this kind stranger—this handsome, rather sweet, compellingly attractive, kind stranger—to involve himself in her life just when it was about to go through the upheaval of a new baby. </p>
<p>“Sure,” he said. “You’re still on for tomorrow?” At her frown, he elaborated. “My friends, the ones expecting the baby soon.” </p>
<p>“Oh, right. Yes,” she nodded. “I’d like to meet them.” </p>
<p>Those eyes again, crinkling at the corners and lighting up with his smile. “Great. I’ll let them know. And maybe I’ll have the kitchen whip up a surprise for you.” </p>
<p>A surprise? “What…?” </p>
<p>“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” he noted. </p>
<p>He had her there. And just for a moment that longing was back, that ache. “I should go,” she said. “I need to change before my shift starts.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “Umali is expecting a shipment today from off world, and wants me in early to receive it.”</p>
<p>B’Elanna stood and pulled her jacket from the chair back. “Are you sure you’re not tempted to run off on the freighter and live a life of adventure?” she teased.</p>
<p>He shook his head. “I’m finding all kinds of adventures right here,” he said. “Hey, if you come by the bar a little early tomorrow, we could grab a bite before you meet Wela and Jordel. </p>
<p>She smiled, she couldn’t help herself. “Okay. As long as you promise you won’t forget my <em>surprise</em>. What do I owe you?” She gestured to the empty plates and coffee pot. </p>
<p>Tom shook his head. “It’s on me.”</p>
<p>She squinted at him. “But you said we’d—”</p>
<p>“I lied.” He shrugged. </p>
<p>Those damn, soft eyes again. B’Elanna pulled on her jacket. “I’m leaving now,” she announced. </p>
<p>“I’ll see you tomorrow.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” she agreed. </p>
<p>The rain had stopped and the sun was out, shining brightly from between the clouds. As B’Elanna pushed through the cafe door and crossed in front of the large picture window, she glanced back inside. Tom was still seated at their table, watching her through the glass. He raised a hand and waved, and she waved back. She smothered a smile, but couldn’t hold back the warm, excited feeling in her belly as she crossed the square and headed for the transport. </p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. HISTORY - IMPEACH</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: just go with it.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>There was an odd scent wafting down the corridor: not unpleasant exactly, but if one wasn’t on deck two, and they didn’t know that the smell must be coming from the mess, they’d be hard put to say with any certainty that it wasn’t the smell of an eps conduit burning out. </p>
<p>Tom’s gait hitched, and he glanced at Harry and raised an eyebrow. <em>There’s still time to cut and run</em>. He was out of rations, hence his intention to brave the mystery and excitement of the mess, but Harry was more frugal in his use of the replicator, and Tom figured he must have enough rations to spot them both some lunch. </p>
<p>“Maybe the captain is having the emergency escape pod hatch resealed,” Harry suggested. </p>
<p>Come to think of it, the scent did remind Tom a bit of the sealant used to melt and rejoin the panels of the interior hull. They stopped just outside the mess doors. As they parted, the scent was not as pungent as it was in the corridor, though that was probably because the room also smelled strongly of whatever was boiling madly in the large cooking pots behind the serving counter. Neelix looked his usual harried self as he lifted a pot lid and momentarily disappeared behind a cloud of steam. </p>
<p>“Hey, Neelix,” Harry called to him. “What’s for lunch?” He squinted through the haze and waved it away from his face. </p>
<p>“Ah.” Neelix replaced the pot lid. “Hello, Harry, Tom.” He smiled hugely at them. “As you can see, I’ve set out a special meal.” </p>
<p>He was beaming as he pointed to the countertop. Several large platters were set there, overflowing with half-circle pocket pastries, fried a deep golden brown, and bowls of sauce. Much to Tom’s surprise, they didn’t smell half bad. </p>
<p>“Lieutenant Baxter requested them. They were a wee bit taxing to make but I didn’t mind. Though, next time, I may only make one, for him.” Neelix’ smile slipped briefly then rebounded. </p>
<p>Tom poked at one with a fork. “What are they?” </p>
<p>“Imps,” Neelix responded with a smile. “Apparently they’re a traditional dish; his grandmother used to make them. Though… according to him hers were a bit smaller.” He used tongs to pick up two of the large pies and place them on trays which he then handed to Tom and Harry. “Only one imp each, I’m afraid. Or there won't be enough to go around.” </p>
<p>“I suspect one will be enough.” Tom eyed the large pastry, whose points were overhanging the edge of the tray. “Imps?” he asked. His eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. </p>
<p>“Imps in adda, whatever that is. I assumed it was some sort of sauce but <em>Voyager’s</em> database wasn’t very helpful with that.”</p>
<p>“Adda,” Harry repeated. </p>
<p>“So I made a pokkel berry compote—careful it’s a tad spicy,” he smacked his lips, “but it is piquante, and I dug out the last of the pleeka rind marmalade.” He held a spoon and gestured to the two bowls of relish-like sauce. </p>
<p>“Pleeka rind!” Tom and Harry chorused. </p>
<p>“Of course.” Neelix <em>splopped</em> a spoonful of each into the small section of their trays, then dropped three little black grape-like things into the last well. “The database did have all kinds of information about small pies though. Pocket pies, presumably because they’re small enough to fit in your pocket for eating on the go! Not that mine are particularly small…” </p>
<p>He peered at the pies on their plates, and Tom poked his with a finger.</p>
<p>“You’d just need a bigger pocket,” Neelix chortled. “And I do prefer to sit and have a conversation when I enjoy a meal. You know,” he continued, “it always surprises me when I see that different cultures have virtually similar dishes! Take these imps, for instance. They bear a striking resemblance to Bajoran larish pie.” </p>
<p>“They do?” </p>
<p>“Oh yes,” Neelix enthused. “And they’re just one version of pocket pies. There are Vulcan <em>der’vesh</em>, and who could forget those little fruit-filled Sikaris <em>cerolas</em>?”</p>
<p>“Not me,” Harry said. </p>
<p>“Earth has many varieties of little hand held pies, too,” Neelix continued. “There’s the cornish pastie, which is filled with cornishes I suppose, something called sam-boo-sack, sam-o sazs, kalzonies, turn overs—I assume you have to flip those. Some have fruit, others vegetables and meat—though we don’t have any real meat on <em>Voyager</em>. I must ask the captain if we can assemble hunting parties the next time we stop at a planet and gather food supplies.” </p>
<p>Tom’s stomach heaved. He liked a nice replicated roast or a pepperoni pizza as much as the next guy, but he was keenly aware that replicated meat had never, well, mooed. Just the thought was enough to put him off his imp in pleeka marmalade. “So, umm, what’s in the imps?” he asked. He hoped it wasn’t mischievous children. He shot a glance at the dining area, thinking that he hadn’t seen Naomi Wildman or Mezoti in a while…</p>
<p>“Oh, I had to make do with chopped kessel leaves and leftover cargum pods. And of course I added some leo—”</p>
<p>“Leola root,” Tom finished. </p>
<p>“Only to bulk it up a bit,” Neelix confirmed. He leaned toward them and whispered conspiratorially, “They were a little flat.” </p>
<p>“Great.” Harry’s smile looked strained. </p>
<p>“Tomorrow, I was thinking of making a ma’am-oooul for Captain Janeway,” he said, drawing out the last syllable. “We seem to be out of owls,” he laughed at his joke, “but I thought the pokkel berries would be a good substitute. I have barrels of them.”</p>
<p>“Yum?” Tom offered. No wonder the captain hated being called ma’am. </p>
<p>Baxter and Ayela arrived, and Tom and Harry stepped away from the counter to give them access to lunch. Neelix <em>enthused</em> all over the lieutenant, and Tom caught Walt’s look of strained appreciation as he eyed the giant <em>imps</em>. </p>
<p>As they slid into their chairs at a table in the back, Harry leaned close to murmur, “Whatever you do, don’t tell Neelix about <em>rat</em>atouille.” </p>
<p>Tom snorted his coffee out his nose. He glanced up and caught Neelix watching them, and sent him a little wave and a smile, then looked down at his giant pastry. Another day in the Delta Quadrant, another culinary adventure. </p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. COOKING - HEIST</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: of course, my first thought for these prompts was the purloined mushrooms &amp; the soup. That’s why this isn’t that. </p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>This was love. Her husband standing at the kitchen counter wearing a frilly apron, their three-year-old, all round, pink cheeks and bright eyes and determined expression while she rolled the dough into little balls and coated them in cinnamon and sugar, then placed them, one by one, very precisely on the baking sheet. They were following B’Elanna’s abuela’s recipe and making her cinnamon shortbread cookies, a treat that had comforted a very young B’Elanna whenever her parents fought, or the children at school tormented her, or she was feeling lonely and out of place on the mostly-Human colony where she’d grown up. </p>
<p>This was love, acted out in simple gestures and rhythms, in indulgent smiles and Tom’s hand on Miral’s back so, in her enthusiasm, she wouldn’t fall off of the kitchen chair that they’d pulled up to the counter so her short, chubby arms could reach the bowl of dough. </p>
<p>Her cousin, Elizabeth, had sent B’Elanna their grandmother’s recipe book, handwritten and illustrated in a surprisingly competent hand, loveworn and familiar, the pages dog-earred and dotted with dark amber spots of grease and filled with recipes from B’Elanna’s early childhood. This was love, solid and real as the recipe book itself, propped open on the kitchen counter displaying the crude red-crayon hearts that child-B’Elanna had drawn on the page to illustrate that polvorones des canele were her favourite. When she’d received it, nestled in a box along with a PADD full of family photos and a handwritten note, B’Elanna had felt hot, then cold, then she’d cried. She’d blamed it on residual pregnancy hormones: her visceral reaction to holding something that her grandmother had created, to the sacrifice that her cousin had made in giving it to her ‘to pass on to your daughter’. This was love. </p>
<p>Coffee in <em>Voyager’s</em> messhall, meeting for Neelix’ <em>risk of the day</em> at lunch, Sesame chicken salad and Ktarian Merlot, peanut butter toast, candlelight and flowers on the table when she’d beamed into their quarters, late for dinner and hounded by a group of Klingon warriors. Potato salad with paprika. The pathway to her affections through her belly.</p>
<p>Tom hadn’t stolen her heart, hadn’t robbed her of her excuses along with her resistance. It hadn’t been anything so simple as a theft. It had been planned. Calculated. A caper right out of his Captain Proton stories. The odds weighed, Harry and the Delta Quadrant, and a Klingon workout holodeck programme as accomplices, an escape route mapped out just in case his plan failed. And when he’d pulled it off, when he’d won his prize, his surprise had been obvious, his silence heartbreaking. Until he believed that she’d meant it when she said she loved him. </p>
<p>His kisses like fire in her blood, like electricity zapping her fingertips, shivering her skin, stealing her breath, her reason. Her discretion. Interfering aliens or no, that giddy rush, that warmth that filled her, that longing when their dinner date was hours away. Her hand in his under the briefing room table. Wanting to be what she <em>thought</em> he wanted her to be but failing, and finding that he wanted her anyway, just as she was. Arguing and making up, unsure steps along the path to here and now, doubting that they could ever get to this point, that he could ever be blissfully happy and content rolling dough into little balls and coating them with sugar. This was love. The pain and the joy and the uncertainty. The shock of it, the rightness. </p>
<p>She dropped a kiss on Miral’s head, and smiled at Tom as he turned and brought an arm around her shoulders. She leaned forward and plucked a still-warm cookie from their first batch off of the cooling rack, her distended belly pushing against Tom’s hip, and popped it whole into her mouth. The sweetness of sugar on her tongue, the spicy warmth of cinnamon, buttery cookie melting in her mouth. </p>
<p>This was the taste of love. </p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. MYTHS - SADNESS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>*****<br/>
Author’s note: This idea has nagged me for a long time, and I had dreams of making it into a sweeping epic of pain and loss and anguish but small and short and quiet might fit the theme better. I was originally going to title it, “Tom’s Other Thirty Days” but none of the other prompts have actual titles. </p><p>For Lady Arreya, you’ll know why at the end.</p><p>***<br/>
Thirty days. Four and a half weeks. Seven hundred and twenty hours, give or take, spent standing over her bio bed, or sitting in the mess with Harry, sitting at the helm with his captain’s hand on his shoulder. Sitting alone in his quarters, waiting. Worrying. Thirty days punctuated with the sounds of a medical tricorder or a bone knitter, or a dermal regenerator, accompanied by her laboured breathing or the rhythmic beep and hum of the sickbay monitors. Or silence that stretched thin and taught. </p><p>Two days believing, but not admitting, that she was dead, dissected by Vidiian monsters in the belly of an asteroid. Two more days, anxious and protective of her human form, thinking that every time she slept she wouldn’t wake again. Watching her strong, invincible Klingon-self die at his feet. The week she’d spent recovering after the Doc reintegrated her Klingon DNA. </p><p>Three days wondering if they, if he, could bring her home after she was kidnapped by a crazed, murderous robot. The sharp flare of fear when she materialized on the deck of his shuttle, injured and looking small and fragile. </p><p>The hours when she wouldn’t wake up, locked into the dreams of someone else’s lost love. </p><p>Her seated across from him in the messhall, feeling weak and nauseated, and him too ill to help her. Fucking Vorik and his <em>Vulcan flu</em>, The Day of Honor…</p><p>His absolute terror when she beamed into sickbay and the Doc told him that a homicidal hologram had tried to rip her heart out of her chest! His hands shaking as he injected her with stimulants: cordrazine, inaprovaline, adrenaline. Thank god—or Kahless—for her eight-chambered heart. </p><p>The Mari trying to remove her violent thoughts; his gut twisting, his anger almost overwhelming that Janeway allowed it. Waiting, impotent, to see if they’d taken <em>her</em> from him. </p><p>The sick feeling in his stomach when he’d accessed her file and read about her injuries after they’d won back their ship, and compromised with the Hirogen so they would stop using <em>Voyager’s</em> crew as prey in their training exercises. </p><p>The numbness, the guilt and anger and sheer horror he’d experienced when he found out she’d been deliberately hurting herself… </p><p>A giant bug twining itself around her vital organs, and her stubborn refusal to allow treatment. His suspicions that she was still punishing herself for living when her friends back home in the Alpha Quadrant were dead. </p><p>And now this. </p><p>It was absurd. Preposterous in a way that leapt beyond the absurdity of the past five years. She’d walked into the lion’s mouth before, they all had for duty. Risks weighed, orders followed. But to volunteer for <em>this</em>? To argue for <em>this</em>?! She’d fought against these beliefs since she was a child. She’d walked out on her mother and everything Klingon ten years ago. A day ago, she hadn’t even believed that the Klingon afterlife was real, and now she was willing to as-good-as die to save her mother’s soul from eternal dishonor and damnation? It would be ludicrous if it weren’t so dangerous. Ridiculous if it weren’t appalling. </p><p>He’d kissed her in front of the captain and the doctor, not caring that she was private, wanting to bloody her, to mark her and remind her what she was risking for a fantasy. Wanting to scream! To rage! Instead, he’d told her to be careful, quietly, personally, as if exercising caution during a medically-induced hallucination would keep her body and mind safe. </p><p>It had been moments, mere minutes since they’d put her in a coma before the alarms had sounded, before her neural patterns had started to break down. Surely not enough time for B’Elanna to meet her mother in the afterlife and save Miral from an eternity in Gre’thor. Minutes added to the days and weeks, but this time he’d helped her in her joust with mortality. Aided and abetted. He shared the blame because he hadn’t been able to talk her out of it. </p><p>She’d woken and flung herself into Janeway’s arms, surprised, astounded that she was alive, after all. It had made Tom wonder what bargain she’d thought she’d made with fate, when Death would demand its payment. His hand on her back, he’d felt her warmth, felt her taut muscles and coiled strength, felt the rise and fall of her ribs with each sweet, life-affirming breath she took. Then she’d released the captain and turned toward him, and he’d pulled her into his arms, half-dragging her across the biobed. He’d almost burst into tears—or screams or recrimination—and only the look of piteous understanding on Janeway’s face had stilled him. He’d closed his eyes in a silent prayer of his own that she was back with him whole and unharmed.</p><p>“Did it work?” Janeway asked. </p><p>“I think so,” B’Elanna answered.</p><p>She retreated from him, and Tom wanted to rage at the captain for interrupting them. Instead, he opened the medical tricorder and examined her himself. Heart rate elevated, but beating. Respirations quick and shallow, but she was breathing. Neurons firing in her brain. </p><p>“I saw my mother,” she said to him. “I spoke to her. She said we’ll see each other again.” </p><p>Her smile flashed, her mouth trembling, and he closed the tricorder and cupped her cheek. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist and held his hand there. Her skin was warm and soft in his palm, her hair silky and cool. He felt the incongruous urge to vomit, bile rising in his throat, and he parted his lips to take slow shallow breaths between his teeth until the urge passed.</p><p>The Doctor had kept her in sickbay for a while longer while he ran more tests. She’d been curiously closed-mothed about her experience, preferring to roll it around in her head in silence. Tom had crossed to the other side of sickbay and left her alone with her thoughts while anger burned inside him. He’d taken the opportunity to make good on his offer and look up a few words in Klingon: <em>yImev</em> (stop what you’re doing!), and <em>bIlughbe’</em> (you are wrong), and <em>chay’</em> (what’s going on?), which he probably should have learned several years ago. </p><p>The Doctor crossed to her biobed and waved a tricorder over her head and across her chest. Tom glanced up from his PADD where he’d been making notes, updating their stock of drugs on hand. He set down the PADD and rose to his feet, anxiety tightening his belly, expecting the Doctor to hem and haw, or to declare that half of her brain was now mush. </p><p>“I think we can safely release you to your quarters, Lieutenant,” the Doctor said instead. “But I want you to take it easy for the next few days. Light duty tomorrow, no tearing the warp core apart.” He looked pointedly at her, and B’Elanna merely nodded. “You can escort her to her quarters if you like, Tom. I don’t need you here right now.” </p><p>At the Doc’s next comment, directed at both of them, ‘No physical exertion for the next forty-eight hours, if you can manage it.’ Tom rolled his eyes.  “I’ll strap her down if I have to, Doc,” he said.</p><p>They walked slowly through the corridors, passing the occasional crewman, nodding hello. None of them knew what they had just done, what they had just risked. Tom’s hand rested on her lower back, possessive and clinging onto her all at once. Feeling her muscles shift as she walked, her breath making her ribcage expand and relax. Anger and relief warred in his belly making his chest tight, his muscles stiff. </p><p>
  <em>I'll read the scrolls, I'll learn Klingon. We'll figure this out together.</em><br/>
<em>Next time.</em>
</p><p>It was only now, waiting at her door while she tapped in her code, surprise blooming inside him as she allowed him to follow her inside, that he realized the importance of his words. <em>I just hope there is a next time</em>, and her answer, <em>There will be</em>. He wanted to confront her, to wrest a promise from her, that there would <em>not</em> be a next time. That, if there was, she would listen to his concerns and weight them equally against her own desire. He was afraid that the next time he lost, he would lose her for good. </p><p>He stood, awkward and unsure, in her living area, watching as she toed-off her boots and unfastened her jacket, her actions so normal, so mundane, after what she’d just risked. Anger bloomed in his belly again, and he consciously relaxed his jaw. “I should go,” he said, his tone measured, voice low. “Let you get some rest.” </p><p>She looked up at him, brow creasing. “You don’t want to stay?”</p><p>He wanted to grab her again, hug her tightly and never let go. “I thought you’d want to be alone to think about what happened,” said. </p><p>Her mouth twitched, lips curving into a crooked smile as she sat on the sofa. “Were you planning to ask the computer to play your rock and roll at top volume?” she asked.</p><p>Tom shook his head. “No.” </p><p>She patted the sofa cushion beside her, and he sat and turned to face her, taking her hand in his. He frowned at her, concern stuttering his breath. “Do you want to talk about it?” </p><p>“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Not yet, at least.” </p><p>Her eyes took on a distant expression, and Tom shifted beside her feeling superfluous, useless. The silence stretched between them, and he couldn’t help himself; he had to fill it. “So, you saw your mother?” he asked. He didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. He’d always thought that death was the end, final, but… </p><p>“Yeah.” The word was a soft breath. “She told me I’ve taken the first step on my journey.”</p><p>He tensed and frowned, envisioning more induced comas and reeking Klingon candles, as if an open flame on a tin can filled with pressurised oxygen was a good idea! “What does that mean?” </p><p>“I’m not sure.” She studied him a moment then shook her head. “Relax, Tom. I’m not about to set up a Klingon monastery in the cargo bay.” </p><p>It wasn't that he didn’t want her to accept and even embrace that half of her, but the idea of her becoming a born-again Klingon was disturbing. “I meant it,” he said, “I’ll study the scrolls with you. I’ve already learned a bit of Klingon.” </p><p>“Have you?” She seemed surprised at that. “Like what?” </p><p>“Well…” His brain worked furiously; he didn’t want to start an argument with her right now. He tried for humour. “I picked up <em>petaQ</em> a few years ago.” </p><p>She raised an eyebrow. “Now where would you learn a word like that?” </p><p>There was a light in her eyes that made him want to believe that she was going to be alright. He frowned exaggeratedly. “It seems to me that someone called me that a few times.” </p><p>She snorted. “Did you pick up anything else?”</p><p>“<em>jIyajbe’</em>.”</p><p>She glanced away, then nodded. “I’m not sure I understand either,” she admitted. “But maybe we can help each other understand.” </p><p>“Okay,” Tom agreed. He couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t contain his residual anxiety and energy. He cupped her cheek again, and she tilted her head to lean into the warmth of his palm. “You scared the shit out of me,” he admitted. </p><p>“I scared myself, too. But someone pretty smart once told me that it’s what we do despite our fear that counts.” </p><p>He studied her, memories from that Vidiian mine coming back to him, of that weak, fragile woman who had seemed so helpless to him then, before he knew her heart. “<em>qamuSHa’</em>, B’Elanna,” Tom said softly.</p><p>A smile tugged at her lush mouth, and Tom was mesmerized. “I love you, too, Tom,” she said. Then she kissed him.</p><p>*****</p><p><em>These fragile bodies of touch and taste</em><br/>
<em>This vibrant skin, this hair like lace</em><br/>
<em>Spirits open to the thrust of grace</em><br/>
<em>Never a breath you can afford to waste</em><br/>
Lovers in a Dangerous Time, Bruce Cockburn, Carlin America Inc</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. DE-AGING - IRK</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: inspired, in part, by this: (yes, I know the link doesn’t work. You’ll have to copy/paste)</p><p>https://autumnchild22.tumblr.com/post/190531166719/so-they-still-have-vr-headsets-by-the-24th</p><p>Also, I rewatched the video on Youtube and spot-read my old book. I’m not sure how well it would stand up to 2380’s values, alas. </p><p>*****</p><p>“<em>’Oh, d-d-d-dear</em>, said Pooh. <em>I have a rumbly in my tumbly,’</em>” Tom said.</p><p>“Rumby in’a tumby!” Ela patted her rounded belly with quick smacks of her palm, her fingers angled stiffly upward. </p><p>“That’s not in the boooooookk...uuugggghhhh...,” Miral moaned. She dropped her head back onto the couch back and thrashed bodily from side to side. </p><p>“Yes,” Tom admonished, “but your sister can’t read yet; she doesn’t know that.” </p><p>At four, Miral was already reading, something that had come as a shock to both Tom and B’Elanna when B’Elanna had tried to cut short a bedtime story that she was reading to her older daughter. Miral had called her out on it, and made her backtrack and read the part she’d skipped. B’Elanna had suggested that Miri read it instead and, apart from a few words that she couldn’t parse, she had. </p><p>Since Klingon children grew faster than Human children, they hadn’t been sure when Miral would hit the benchmarks in childhood development. True, she was only one-quarter Klingon, but the Doc had told them that B’Elanna’s Klingon genes would be prominent for several generations, meaning that they could likely look forward to Klingon grandchildren and great-grandchildren, so they’d both assumed Miral would be walking and talking at an early age much like B’Elanna herself had. It didn’t happen. When she wasn’t walking by her first birthday, they’d been concerned. She was fifteen months before she took her first steps, quickly followed by running and climbing and getting into anything lower than a meter from the floor. They’d both wondered why they had wished away her stay-put phase.</p><p>By two, she had a small vocabulary of mostly two- or three-word sentences, though she’d appeared to understand her parents perfectly well. The Doctor had told them that she was healthy, and she would speak when she had something to say. By four—occasionally going on forty—she had a lot to say. </p><p>Isela, on the other hand, had stormed the barriers: aided by her older sister, she was walking by nine months, and talking in full sentences--verb, subject, the occasional modifier--not long after her first birthday, likely because she had three people speaking to her all day long. She was taller than Miral, sturdier, and looked more like a Terran two-year-old than her fifteen months. Tom occasionally got a twinge of ‘new baby’ longing, but their girls kept him far too busy, and too exhausted, to contemplate broaching the subject with B’Elanna any time soon. </p><p>“<em>’It all comes,’</em>” Tom continued reading, “<em>’I suppose,’ he decided as he said goodbye to the last branch, spun around three times, and flew gracefully into a gorse-bush, ‘it all comes of liking honey so much.’</em>”</p><p>“Honey!!!” the girls shouted. </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em>HONEY!</em>
</p><p>Not for the first time B’Elanna contemplated giving up their lease on the little cottage and finding someplace more modern, with duranium walls and doors that actually blocked out noise when they were shut.</p><p>“<em>’Oh, help!’</em>” She heard Tom’s voice, only slightly muffled by the heavy wooden door, as he yelled. She was reasonably certain that he was still reading Winnie-the-Pooh to the girls, but it was entirely possible that they’d turned on him and trussed him up like a prized pig. She smiled at the thought. His own fault, she decided. </p><p>His next words were more muffled, but she knew the book by heart. “…<em> ‘And the first person he thought of was Christopher Robin.’</em>” </p><p>The reply came through loud and clear, though. “Meeee!” screeched Miral, or rather, Christopher Robin, as she’d insisted they call her lately. That is, when she wasn’t being Tigger. </p><p>B’Elanna sighed and glanced back at the PADD. She loved them fiercely, endlessly, mercilessly, but… they were loud. And there were times when Tom was loudest of them all.</p><p>She was prepping for her class, slatted to start in two weeks. She’d fought for the title, Engineering on the Fly, fully expecting the Academy bigwigs to deny her request so she could have an excuse to back out of teaching. It was an idea that Chapman had brought to her right after they’d returned from the Delta Quadrant, when Miral was still a newborn: to teach a class in seat-of-your-pants engineering, for situations when going by the book either wasn’t possible or advised. Tom had come up with the title—she'd suggested calling it ‘Fix the Ship or Everyone Dies’—but Chapman had thought Tom’s pun sounded less strident. </p><p>She had insisted on a limit of twenty, third-year cadets, and the class had a waiting list of five times that. Some cadets would have to return to the Academy years after they graduated to attend. It was… overwhelming. She was good enough to <em>do</em> it, <em>Voyager’s</em> triumphant return proved that, but was she good enough to <em>teach</em> it? She would find out in fifteen days. </p><p>“A blue balloon!” Miral’s voice came through the door again, loud and clear, followed a half-beat behind by Isela’s higher pitched, “Boo ba-ooooonnn!”</p><p>“Don’t get honey with balloons!” Miral shouted.</p><p>“‘<em>I do,’ said Pooh.</em>” The words were muffled as Tom read. </p><p>B’Elanna glanced up again, only slightly annoyed at the interruption. Tom thought he was keeping them out of her hair while she reviewed her notes, but nothing short of taking them out the house altogether would give her the peace she needed to memorize these materials. She tapped a new tab on the PADD, opening the next chapter of her <em>Instructor’s Resource Kit</em>, and groaned at the table of contents: </p><p>1  Sentient Behaviour and the Social Environment</p><p>i - Generalist Sentient Services<br/>
ii - Diversity in Sentient Services<br/>
iii - Sentient Services Management<br/>
iv - Instructor Resources in Sentient Services</p><p>2  Social Welfare Policy</p><p>i - History of Social Welfare<br/>
ii - Advocacy of Social Welfare<br/>
iii - Adjustment, Sentient Relations</p><p>Ugh!!! If they weren’t ‘adjusted’ by third year, they had no business in her classroom! She had no interest in babysitting adults. And if they needed hand-holding, they were in the wrong class!  She expected every one of her students to keep a cool head underpressure, and if they couldn’t handle a classroom lecture and a few holodeck battle simulations, there was no way they could handle a real life or death situation in deep space. They obviously weren’t suited for a life in Starfleet and should drop out— </p><p>She stilled and sucked a breath. It was probably a good thing that she was being force-fed this psychological, touchy-feely stuff. Maybe, if one of her professors had bothered to access their IRK, she would have stuck around, herself, and graduated. But then she likely wouldn’t have ended up on <em>Voyager</em>. Wouldn’t have, with some coaxing and not a small amount of patient persuasion, fallen in love with Tom. Wouldn’t have had two, noisy targletes with him. She heard a thump from the other room. </p><p>Really, she had all of her teaching materials in place. Assisted by Chakotay, Janeway, Chapman, and Owen Paris, she had jumped through the hoops required to get instated as a visiting professor. She had her room assignment, F building, room 212, and had memorized her class list so she’d know who was whom on the first day. Her students all looked impossibly young. </p><p>The sound of more foolishness came through the door, and B’Elanna looked up from the PADD and sighed. She crossed to the doorway and opened it a crack. Tom’s voice, pitched exaggeratedly low in his Pooh-Bear voice, drifted down the hallway.</p><p>**</p><p>“<em>’It’s a very funny thing,’ said Bear, ‘but there seems to be two animals now. This—whatever-it-was—’</em>” Tom reached for Miral and tickled her ribs. She screamed and kicked and thrashed herself completely off of the couch, landing on the floor at Tom’s feet. “<em>’has been joined,’</em>” he continued reading, “<em>’by another—whatever-it-is—’</em>” He gave a more gentle poke and tickle to Isela’s belly, though she reacted much the same as her older sister, toppling to one side on the couch cushions and kicking her father in the jaw. Tom got her under control with a firm hand on her ankle.  “<em>’And the two of them are proceeding in company,’</em>” he finished.</p><p>“It’s a Woozle!” Miral hollered. </p><p>“Ouuzzle!” Ela screeched. </p><p>“Not a Heffalump?” Tom asked. </p><p>“That’s the movie, Daddy.” Miral’s tone implied that she was disappointed in his lack of ability to keep the two things separate. </p><p>“How can you be sure if you don’t investigate?” </p><p>Miral jumped to her feet at that and clapped her hands. “I see footprints!”</p><p>“How many sets?” </p><p>“Three! No, four!” </p><p>B’Elanna watched as Tom stood and scooped a squealing Isela from the couch and slung her over his shoulder. She laughed and kicked. “It could be a Wizzle,” he suggested. He crouched suddenly and grabbed at Miral, and she screeched and ran around the coffee table. “Or a Snark!” Tom charged after her, roaring, Isela bouncing on his shoulders. </p><p>“That’s Alice,” Miral hollered, giggling. She was on the floor now, arms and legs drawn up defending her belly as Tom threatened to drop her little sister on top of her. </p><p>“Well, this is a <em>Boojum!</em>” </p><p>“Me Pig-it!” Ela corrected him. Her stuffed Piglet hit the floor to illustrate her statement, and she shrieked in outrage. Tom lowered her just enough so her outstretched arms could make a grab for the toy, then he yanked her back upward, sans stuffed pig. She howled. </p><p>The noise was almost deafening. She didn’t have two kids, she had three! Duranium walls, B’Elanna thought. Deuterium. Anything other than wood and plasterboard. She’d even be up for horsehair insulation right about now. She crossed over to them and scooped Piglet from the floor and held him out to her youngest. Ela grabbed him and cuddled him close under her chin, then lunged toward her mother. Tom handed her over. </p><p>“How long have you been standing there?” he asked. </p><p>“Since with woozles,” she said. </p><p>“Did you finish?” He reached down and hauled Miri to her feet. </p><p>“I’m done for tonight.” </p><p>“I want to watch it,” Miral insisted. She bounced around the living room until she came to the couch, and jumped onto it knee-first.</p><p>“Not tonight, Miri. It’s too long and I think it’s time for Piglet’s bath,” B’Elanna said. She scooped up the baby, who was rapidly leaving babyhood behind, and stuffed her nose into Isela’s neck, taking a big sniff while she squirmed and giggled. B’Elanna pulled away and scrunched her face into a puckered frown. “Peee-yew!” she declared. </p><p>“I’m Tigger,” Miral insisted. </p><p>“Does Tigger have a rumbly in his tumbly?” B’Elanna asked. Tom caught her eye and grinned at her. Five years ago, she would have been mute for a year before she would utter a phrase like that. She was still nursing Isela, mostly mornings and evenings, but Miral often wanted a bedtime snack. B’Elanna believed it was more a method to put off bedtime than a reflection of real hunger.</p><p>“How about honey on toast?” Tom suggested. </p><p>Miral nodded and bounced toward the kitchen. </p><p>“I’ll start their bath,” B’Elanna said. She slanted Tom a glance and smiled. “And I’ll read the bedtime book tonight. Something soothing.” Isela had cuddled into her shoulder and B’Elanna rubbed her back, loving the sweet, heavy warmth of her baby girl. </p><p>“Sure, Rabbit,” Tom grinned. </p><p>It wasn’t lost on her that he’d given her the name of the, in Tom Paris parlance, fun-sucker of the group. She wouldn’t classify him as prissy, self-important Owl, and he certainly wasn’t Eeyore. “Hmmph,” she said. </p><p>She moved into the narrow, angled hallway that separated the bathroom and bedrooms from the living area of the small, three-hundred year old house. She did love it, she had to admit. She loved its coziness, which had seemed so spacious after their shared quarters. She loved the odd quirks of the uneven floorboards, and cracked walls, and not-quite ninety-degree angles to the corners of the rooms. She loved the eat-in kitchen, and the fact that you had to pass through the living room to get to the bathroom. </p><p>As Isela’s sweet warmth spread through her, she decided she wouldn’t trade their home in a ‘tree stump’ in the Hundred Acre Wood for anything. </p><p>***</p><p>Pooh Bear quotes from my old copy of Winnie -the-Pooh by A.A. Milne, 1926, EP Dutton &amp; Co, Inc. (mine is from 1973 - Ido not have an original, alas)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. LOSS - DREAD</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Look, I'll read the scrolls, I'll learn Klingon. We'll figure this out together.“</em><br/>
<em>“Next time.“</em><br/>
<em>“I just hope there is a next time.“</em><br/>
<em>“There will be.“</em>
</p><p>He thought he would be more angry. He thought he would rage and scream and blame, but he found himself curiously numb. Fatalistic. He’d learned a year ago that it was pointless to argue when her mind was made up; been reminded of that fact a month ago. It was a waste of breath and emotion. But, knowing this day would come eventually, he honestly thought he’d be more angry. Instead, he’d set his jaw, and swallowed his words, and let it go. Again.</p><p>He didn’t give a shit about the pip. He didn’t even care about disappointing Janeway or pissing off B’Elanna-with-her-mind-made-up. He knew a losing battle when he saw one, recognized a pointless argument, knew that if he <em>had</em> sabotaged the ‘Flyer, they’d just take out another shuttle, one that wasn’t as well armoured, find another way to offer themselves up to Fate. Fuck, only a month ago he’d thought she was gone forever, her and Harry lost or dead somewhere in the black of space. He’d been ready to head out after them, run a planet-by-planet search. </p><p>They’d been missing for ten days. For almost two weeks he’d been terrified that she was dead, the certainty that he’d never see her again sitting like a lump of ice in his belly. Then, when they’d finally been found and he’d spoken to her from his post on the bridge, he’d had no idea that she’d been injured; she hadn’t let on. He’d been so fucking grateful to have her back, whole and sound, that he hadn’t pressed her for details. Until she’d finally beamed into sickbay an agonizing eternity behind Harry. </p><p>She’d spent a further hour down on that fucking backwater planet instead of beaming back to <em>Voyager</em> immediately. Back to him. Instead of coming home, she’d apparently had to make one more visit to that <em>Kelis,</em> who she couldn’t seem to stop talking about… Him and his pointless play. It didn’t seem to occur to her how much he’d worried, how he’d been sick with it, ready to mutiny. She’d been utterly confused, disbelieving, when he’d told her how Tuvok had stayed awake almost the entire time they were gone. </p><p>He’d all but run to sickbay once she beamed aboard, taken over from the Doc and examined her himself, and the whole time she was going on and on about how some hick alien she’ll never see again thought she was an <em>Eternal</em> and had written a series of plays about her and <em>Voyager’s</em> crew. Fuck the Prime Directive. That had been well and truly blown to Hell! </p><p>She hadn’t been fucking <em>okay</em>: internal bleeding, fractured ribs, mild concussion, lacerations to her arms that looked deliberately inflicted which she’d barely healed with the dermal regenerator. And all she could talk about was how she’d outwitted Kelis and written an end to his saga herself. Rage had boiled in him then, quietly seeping into his blood and settling into his bones. Stiffening his spine, tightening his skin. Stilling him. He’d healed her, escorted her back to her quarters, listened while she recanted the past week: the ion storm, practically shoving Harry bodily into the escape pod, crashing the ‘Flyer. Waking, tied to a chair and surrounded by burning candles, making her wonder for a moment if she was back on the Barge of the Dead. She’d had the nerve to laugh at that. </p><p>None of it was funny to Tom. He’d stayed for an hour, then left her to rest. She didn’t object to his leaving. </p><p>And now she was back in sickbay, healing, fine aside from a few stray nanoprobes and Borg circuitry, and he was… still. Resigned. Defeated. </p><p>
  <em>“If you’re going to pull this off, you’ll need an engineer in there.“</em>
</p><p>Her words had blindsided him. Knocked the breath from his lungs. Hurt him more than she would ever have guessed. He didn’t know at the time why it had shocked him so much; she’d never made decisions based on how they would affect him, there was no reason to think she would suddenly start. But walking onto a Borg cube? Purposefully allowing herself to be assimilated? It beggared belief. </p><p>He’d been relieved when Janeway had shut her down, only to feel his old frustration come back later when he’d been ordered to help her prep the ‘Flyer so B’Elanna could accompany her on the mission, after all. For a moment he’d hated his captain...</p><p>
  <em>“Since when have you been so meticulous?“</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Since you volunteered for this insane mission. You know, I could sabotage the helm. You’d never make it past the launch doors.“</em>
</p><p>It would have been all too easy: reverse the polarity on the isomagnetic EPS conduits in the plasma manifold, disconnect the joystick, remove the bulbs so the activation lights on the conn didn’t light up. And it would have taken her about twenty minutes to repair. </p><p>
  <em>“Then I’d have to put you on report. You might lose that new pip of yours.“</em>
</p><p>As if he cared about the pip more than her. Af if his rank being reinstated was more important to him than her safety! It had been a kick in the gut, to know that his concerns, his desires, had mattered less to her than the excitement of infiltrating a Borg cube and aiding a Borg rebellion. The Maquis, back after so many years of playing good Starfleet officer. </p><p>It had been weeks since they’d last made love, since they’d last spent any real time together besides a hastily arranged meal in the mess. Since they’d last connected on any real level. He didn’t want to think about it too deeply. Since before she and Harry had gone missing: the night before the away mission. </p><p>
  <em>“Take care of my baby.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I helped design the ‘Flyer, remember? I think I can handle piloting it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I meant you...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m nobody’s baby, Tom!”</em>
</p><p>She’d made him pay for that with bruises on his skin that hadn’t faded until she’d returned. It had been different. Not the impulsive, joyous, rough and tumble coming together like the first few months they’d dated, when any breakable object within a three metre radius of the bed had suffered for their enthusiasm. It was like each was trying to prove a point, trying to regain something. Trying to make it right.</p><p>After she’d returned from her little ‘writer in residence’ on that moon, he’d been angry with her, hurt, and he’d stepped away. Immersed himself in repairing the ‘Flyer since she wouldn’t allow him to nurture her, and writing a new Captain Proton programme which she would refuse to play. He’d replicated a few classic novels that he’d always intended to read, volunteered for a few extra shifts in sickbay. He’d waited for her to miss him, to comm him. She hadn’t. They saw each other often enough: in briefings, or on the bridge, or in the mess hall. But either they were working opposite shifts or he’d been tired or she’d been busy with some side project, and they’d drifted. She hadn’t seemed to notice. </p><p>She insisted that the Doc straighten her hair when he stimulated the follicles to make it grow back quickly. She’d said that it was easier to manage, easier to style in the morning, which might have been true. But Tom mourned the loss of the curls he’d used to run his fingers through when they made love. And he’d wondered if she’d been waiting for an opportunity to change her hair back to her old regimented style; one that wouldn’t solicit an opinion from him. </p><p>His guts twisting, heart like a stone in his chest, body frozen and tense. Impotent energy firing along his nerves, stinging his skin, his breath restrained, waiting… because Chakotay thought it was just fine to give them three hours or four, instead of the two they’d agreed upon. Because, despite six years of rumour and innuendo, Chakotay didn’t have a woman he loved on a fucking Borg ship! And if he did, maybe he should have done something about it! Maybe Tom should have: tied her up, knocked her out, flatly refused to allow her to go… The mission or him. </p><p>B’Elanna didn’t take kindly to ultimatums. Or threats. </p><p>He couldn't do it anymore, he realized. He couldn't’ love her, couldn’t need her like he needed breath and sustenance, and watch her shuttle get blown out from under her, wait in that suspended eternity until Harry confirmed that they’d beamed <em>inside a fucking Borg cube!</em></p><p>He released a breath, consciously lowered his shoulders. Relaxed his spine. He tapped the PADD and filed the update on the Captain’s vital signs, then stowed it in the Doc’s office. He studied the readings displayed on the monitor near Tuvok’s biobed as he approached the Doctor. “I’m clocking out now.” </p><p>“Very good. I don’t think we’ll need you tomorrow, but if I do, I’ll let you know.” He barely glanced at Tom.</p><p>“Sure. I”ll be on the bridge.” With half the command crew still in sickbay, he was Chakotay’s defacto second. He had duty in the big chair tomorrow morning, relieving Harry at the end of gamma shift. He glanced at B’Elanna on his way to the door, but she was absorbed in a PADD, catching up on the daily reports from engineering. His mouth twisted and he looked away.</p><p>They’d blown his shuttle to hell. If she didn’t want to talk to him in sickbay, in front of the captain and the interfering Doctor, that was fine. If she didn’t want to talk to him at all right now, that was fine too. He had a shuttle to design. This time, he could take his time: concentrate on design and look, not just functionality. He wanted to redesign the helm, make it look a little less like a toy and more like a racing vessel. He’d been thinking about it. Two joysticks would give him better balance, better control. And he wanted to lower the entire cockpit so it was more removed from the opps and tactical areas, so it <em>felt</em> more like an old spaceship from <em>Thunderbirds Are GO</em>, or <em>Robotech</em>. The idea made him smile. </p><p>He stepped into the lift and called for deck two. A cup of coffee, a PADD, and a little ingenuity was all he needed. He’d rebuild it, better, stronger, faster, thanks to his idea of a pair of retractable impulse engines in the upper hull. They should give the <em>Delta Flyer II</em> a significant boost at sublight speed. </p><p>B’Elanna would be busy, he was sure. There was always something that tugged at her interest, divided her attention. It didn’t bother him anymore. He wouldn’t let it.  He was tired of fighting, tired of kicking at her walls, tired of trying to knock them down. She’d come to him or she wouldn’t; miss <em>them</em> or she wouldn’t. </p><p>He was too tired to care.</p><p>***** </p><p><em>When you’re lovers in a dangerous time</em><br/>
<em>Sometimes you’re made to feel your love’s a crime</em><br/>
<em>But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight</em><br/>
<em>Got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight</em><br/>

Lovers in a Dangerous Time, Bruce Cockburn, Carlin America Inc</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. FAMILY - AMAZON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>******</p><p>B’Elanna hooked her boots around the exterior of the siderail and slid down the ladder, landing on the metal grid below with a muted <em>konggg</em>. She’d warned her staff not to do that. Even though it was a faster way to descend it was dangerous and could result in a fall, but she’d had to snake her way through two decks and eight sections of <em>Voyager’s</em> innards, and she was in no mood to waste any more time. There was a sign beside the hatch: Deck 11 Section 4B Main Engineering</p><p>“Finally,” she muttered. </p><p>She’d been wandering the ship’s corridors for the better part of twenty minutes trying to find engineering. Unless she’d suffered a small stroke or had her body taken over through mind-control, it shouldn’t have been this difficult. Since she’d left Kes’ birthday party on the holodeck, she’d run into Baxter in the transporter room on deck four, then she’d found herself in the mess. She’d end up at her own quarters twice. It was obvious that there was a problem with the turbolift’s voice command recognition so, instead of trusting it a fifth time, she’d used the Jefferies tubes. </p><p>She popped the hatch and climbed out into the corridor, taking a moment to shove the hatch closed—safety first—then turned and strode toward the main doors to engineering. She rounded a bend in the corridor and stopped short. “Harry?” she said. </p><p>Kim was crouched beside a doorway, fiddling with the controls. He looked up at her call. “B’Elanna, shouldn’t you be in engineering? What are you doing here?” </p><p>She paused beside him and glanced around. That doorway shouldn’t be there, and the branch in the corridor beyond shouldn’t be there either. She turned back toward the way she’d come and surveyed the corridor. </p><p>“Just answer one question, Starfleet. Where is <em>here</em>?” </p><p>Harry frowned at her. “What?” </p><p>“Where am I? This isn’t deck eleven.” </p><p>Harry stood and raised an eyebrow. He pointed to the sign affixed to the wall between the door frame and the door code access panel. “Holodeck two. Deck 6?” He frowned again. “Are you feeling okay?” </p><p>“I’m… confused.” She turned and looked behind her again. Turbolift doors that she hadn’t noticed before parted and the captain, Tom Paris, and Chakotay stared at them with similar confused expressions. </p><p>“I don’t suppose anyone knows the way to the bridge?” Tom asked. </p><p>“I have no idea,” B’Elanna said. “I’ve been walking in circles trying to get to engineering.” </p><p>The three stepped out of the turbolift just as Neelix and Kes rounded the corner and stopped abruptly in front of the confused group of officers. </p><p>“Those wouldn’t happen to be the doors to Kes’ quarters, would they?” Neelix asked, pointing toward the holodeck door. </p><p>B’Elanna shook her head. “What is going on?” she murmured. </p><p>**</p><p>Harry theorized that they were being pushed toward the center of the ship by some sort of distortion ring. The idea had some merit, she supposed, but it didn’t account for rooms being in the wrong place, for decks being shuffled like a deck of cards. Somehow, the distortion was changing the layout of the ship. </p><p>“We’ll never figure it out sitting here,” Janeway said. “We need more information about this phenomenon: sensor readings, computer analyses. We have to find a way back to the bridge.” </p><p>“You tried the turbolift, and I’m not getting anywhere on foot. If I can find my way back to the transporter room, maybe we can transport there,” B’Elanna suggested. </p><p>“There or engineering,” Tom said.</p><p>“I’ve been trying to get to engineering and I can’t.” B’Elanna shook her head </p><p>“We tried to get to the bridge,” Tom said, “and we ended up in engineering…”</p><p>“So… you’re saying if we order the turbolift to take us to the bridge we’ll go to engineering instead?” B’Elanna asked. </p><p>“It’s worth a try,” the captain decided. “Tom, B’Elanna, take a tricorder with you. I want everyone to collect all the data they can about this… event. Go.” </p><p>They walked into the corridor, and B’Elanna was only slightly surprised to see the turbolift right where they’d left it. She followed Tom inside quickly, afraid the doors would close in her face and separate them. She was getting punchy, she realized. Creeped out. It had started with a comm from the bridge, but Tuvok’s message was too garbled to understand beyond. Then the comm system had gone out, leaving her no choice but to head to engineering directly to see what she could do to fix the problem.</p><p>“Bridge,” Tom said, with more confidence than she was feeling at the moment.</p><p>The turbolift chirped its acknowledgement and the car started to move upward. That was a good sign; maybe they’d end up at the bridge, after all. She could use the engineering console to troubleshoot the problem. B’Elanna glanced at Tom, looked away. He held his tricorder in his hand as he faced the doors, his eyes set on its display. She turned her head and saw a bar of lights slide downward, and belatedly realized that she should have been counting decks as they rose. </p><p>The ‘lift stopped and Tom smiled at her. “Here you go, engineer—” </p><p>They stepped through the open doors directly into someone’s quarters. Dining table, sofa, an unmade bed. The place was a mess. The remains of breakfast, crusted on a plate, was on the coffee table next to a bunch of PADDS which were piled haphazardly. A few were abandoned on the sofa. A pillow from the bed was tossed onto a chair. Clothing was draped over the back of the couch; a long red vest hung on the back of a dining chair… her vest. Oh.</p><p>“Wow,” Tom whistled. “Someone’s a slob.”</p><p>She grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside the ‘lift. “Let’s try again,” she said.</p><p>“Hey.” Tom pointed toward a pile of clothing on the floor in the sleeping area. “Those boots look familiar.” </p><p>“Lots of people wear boots,” she mumbled. The turbolift doors almost closed on Tom’s nose. “Bridge,” she said, forcefully.</p><p>The ‘lift started moving. “Not exactly regulation,” Tom commented. “It would be funny if those were Tuvok’s quarters.” </p><p>They stopped and the doors opened again, saving her from having to reply. They stepped out into a corridor, and Tom glanced at the identification panel beside the ‘lift controls. “Deck 7,” he sighed. </p><p>“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” B’Elanna answered. “You heard what Kes said about the crew quarters being mixed up. Come on.” She headed down the corridor until they came to an intersection, and stopped. “Left or right?” </p><p>“Isn’t there some old theory about the way to get out of a maze is to keep turning right?” Tom asked. </p><p>“I thought that was left,” she said.</p><p>They stared at each other for a moment, then Tom shrugged. “I just hope we don’t run into a minotaur.” </p><p>“Right,” B’Elanna decided, marching decisively down the corridor. It ended in a dead end. Tom, to his credit, didn’t say a thing, he merely turned and started back the way they’d come. The branch of the corridor where they’d come from the turbolift had disappeared, and B’Elanna started to feel a prick of fear. She glanced at Tom, and saw that he was frowning. There were no doors along the corridor, no Jefferies tube hatches, just endless carpet and curving bulkhead. They rounded the curve—she’d wanted to run to see what was beyond—and came to a turbolift, its doors open invitingly. She practically stomped inside.</p><p>“This is getting ridiculous,” she said. “BRIDGE!” </p><p>Tom, usually so easy going, stared at her for a few moments.  “Are you okay?” he asked.</p><p>“Fine.” she nodded. “Peachy.” </p><p>The doors opened on another private crew quarters, these neat and tidy. “Hey,” Tom said, pointing to the orange lights over the bed, and the three-branched yucca plant in the corner, and the print over the dining table. “These are my quarters!” He took a step forward, but B’Elanna hauled him back inside the turbolift. </p><p>“Bridge,” she ordered. “Or engineering, or holodeck two. Whatever! Just take us somewhere with other people around!” Tom’s eyebrow rose, but he refrained from saying anything once he saw B’Elanna glower. After a minute or so, the turbolift doors opened again, this time directly onto main engineering. B’Elanna grinned in victory. </p><p>“Finally,” Tom said. “I told you it would work.”</p><p>She wasted no time in informing her crew of the emergency onboard the ship, and ordered all of them to stay at their posts whether or not their duty shifts had ended. Then she told Jiang to prepare the transporter systems for a site to site transport to the bridge. “Why don’t you check out the targeting scanners?” she directed at Tom.</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.” </p><p>He sent her that smarmy little smile that made her want to knee him in the gut. She refrained. Instead, she crossed engineering to the room where the pattern buffer control matrix was housed, intending to reset the buffers for a tight dispersal. With the ship’s layout constantly changing, it would be tricky to land herself and Tom on the bridge, and not inside the deck or a bulkhead.</p><p>She hit the lock and the door opened to reveal Nozawa, her transporter chief, wearing nothing but his ‘Fleet issue briefs and a startled expression. He was standing in what were obviously his own quarters, unless he made a habit of wandering around the ship in his underwear. They both froze for a long moment, and B’Elanna couldn’t help it when her gaze roamed over his nicely muscled chest, his broad shoulders and strong arms. She swallowed. “Umm,” she said. Training kicked in. “We’re in an emergency situation. I need you to remain where you are until I tell you otherwise.” </p><p>Nozawa simply nodded. B’Elanna released the door controls and turned away. She could feel her cheeks heating, feel embarrassment curling in her gut. She <em>thunk</em>ed the back of her head on the bulkhead. </p><p>Tom appeared at her elbow. Curling his warm fingers around her shoulder, and gave it a pat. “I think you handled that very well.” </p><p>She blew a breath, fighting the rising tide of heat in her cheeks. She’d had no idea that Nozawa… no wonder Nicoletti had been cozying up to him lately. She felt immediately bad about that. He was a nice guy; of course Sue liked him for his personality. </p><p>“Are you sure we don’t need his help,” Tom asked, “transporter chief and all…?” </p><p>B’Elanna snapped to attention and hit the door control again, but Nozawa’s quarters were gone, replaced by the buffer control room. She sighed. </p><p>It only took a few minutes to reconfigure the buffers, then she joined Tom at an engineering console and confirmed that the scanners checked out. She drew a calming breath and looked him in the eyes. He was obviously waiting for her to tell him to go ahead.</p><p>“We might as well give it a try. Activate the auxiliary pattern buffers.” Tom nodded and did so. “Targeting the bridge coordinates,” she said. “Energize.” </p><p>The engine room faded in a sparkle of light, and she and Tom materialized on a soft, spongy surface. Her sight cleared and she lurched to the side. Tom grabbed her arm so she wouldn’t tip over on the squishy… mattress. She expelled a harsh, frustrated sigh. They were standing on her unmade bed, boots tangled in the blankets. “This is ridiculous.”</p><p>“Well, I give up,” Tom said. He helped her down, then promptly stretched out and folded his arms under his head. “The universe is obviously trying to tell us something, so I’m going to take a nap until all of this is over.” </p><p>She shoved his shoulder, rocking him slightly. “Get out of my bed! </p><p>He jerked, raising his head from the pillow, his eyebrows climbing. “These are your quarters?!”</p><p>“What?” she snapped; she was in no mood for a lecture on ‘Fleet regulations regarding the cleanliness of her quarters. </p><p>Tom sat up and looked around. “I just thought you’d be a little more… meticulous.” At her pointed glare, he said, “You know, because engineering is precise work…” He cleared his throat and climbed off the bed. “So, what do you suggest we try?” </p><p>She thought for a moment. “Something is moving the rooms and decks of the ship around. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be, or even where it was a few moments after you leave it.”</p><p>“Right,” he agreed. He picked up a pair of slacks and two shirts from the floor and shoved them into her ‘fresher, then reached for the tall, multi-buckled boots. “I <em>knew</em> these were familiar,” he said.</p><p>She grabbed them out of his hands and tossed them toward her closet. “We’ve been trying to get to the bridge, and we eventually found engineering. When I was trying to get to engineering, before, I walked into the mess hall.”</p><p>“Great,” Tom quipped. “When we get hungry, I’ll follow you.” He bent down and picked up a throw cushion from the floor and replaced it on the sofa.</p><p>She ignored him. “So, it’s reasonable to assume, if we go somewhere where we know the bridge isn’t, we just might end up there!”</p><p>His face puckered in confusion. “You’re starting to sound like Alice,” he said.</p><p>“Who?” </p><p>“Or maybe it was the Doormouse?” </p><p>“Come on.” </p><p>She tugged on his arm and marched toward her bathroom, but Tom stopped in his tracks. “I don’t know about you but I prefer privacy when I…” </p><p>“We’re going to the bridge.” She heard his snort but didn’t turn her head to look at him. </p><p>“I've heard it called a throne before, but never the ‘Captain’s Chair’,” he joked.</p><p>They stepped through the doorway into a darkened room. “Lights,” B’Elanna called. It wasn’t the bridge, but she recognized it from earlier. Orange lights over the bed. Odd-looking plant in the corner. “Ohhh,” she groaned. “I don’t believe it!” They were back in Tom’s quarters. </p><p>“Well, this would be convenient if we were dating,” he said. </p><p>“In your dreams,” she muttered. She barely broke her stride as she headed through his living area and stormed through the doors out into the corridor. </p><p>Tom followed her, reading the ident plaques as they walked. “Ah, ha,” he said, “Fitzpatrick, right where he should be.” </p><p>“That’s not actually encouraging,” she said. They rounded a curve and stopped in front of a turbolift. “Damn.”</p><p>“Forward? Back?” Tom asked. </p><p>She slammed the controls to open the ‘lift doors and there were her quarters, slightly less messy than when they’d entered them five minutes ago. She roared in frustration and turned around, storming back down the corridor. </p><p>“You know,” Tom drawled, trailing behind her, “any reasonable person would decide that the universe wanted—” </p><p>“The universe?” She halted abruptly and he almost ran right into her as she swung around to face him. “Any <em>reasonable</em> person would know that there’s a scientific explanation to why this is happening and would want to…” Her voice trailed off as something odd caught her attention at the end of the corridor. The deck and bulkhead appeared to shimmer and sway. </p><p>Tom turned his head. “What the hell is that…?” </p><p>“I don’t know; some sort of distortion,” she said. She pulled her tricorder from her pocket and aimed it at the disruption. The readings didn’t make any sense. “It’s like… the molecules are agitated. Almost like the deck is changing to a different form of matter then changing back again.” She shook her head. “According to my readings, the bulkhead is being compressed somehow. I don’t understand.” </p><p>“I don’t either,” Tom said. The distortion had spread to the ceiling, and now the entire end of the corridor appeared to undulate. “But it looks like it’s coming closer to us, so I think we’d better get the hell out of here, don’t you?” </p><p>B’Elanna nodded. She backed up a few steps before she turned and ran; Tom was right behind her. There was a turbolift that hadn’t been there before, and she didn’t hesitate to run inside. “Bridge,” she demanded. This time, she counted the bars of lights as they sped downward, and relief flowed into her as she took a slow, calming breath. They were rising, heading upward. After eight bands of light had disappeared below the turbolift’s deck, she turned to Tom. “Which deck are your quarters on?” </p><p>“Four,” he said with a resigned expression. He’d been counting, too. </p><p>The ‘lift doors opened again, onto B’Elanna’s quarters. Her body tensed as she inhaled, preparing herself for a full-body, rage-induced scream, but Tom grabbed her by the arm and hauled her out of the turbolift before she could open her mouth. “I’m done,” he said. “We’re obviously meant to be here.” He plopped down onto her couch. “Do you have any extra rations? All that running around has made me hungry.” </p><p>B’Elanna paced from her dining table to her bed to her bathroom, trying to work off some frustrated energy. “Well,” she snapped, “if you hadn’t blown all your rations on that ridiculously inappropriate present for Kes, you’d be able to order whatever you want!” She stormed to her doorway; she had to see… </p><p>The doors parted to reveal her quarters. She could see Tom sitting on her couch, frowning at her. She turned her head: he was sitting on her couch, frowning, his mouth now twisted in a scowl. </p><p>“What do you mean, inappropriate? She loved it.” </p><p>“It’s a little personal, don’t you think?” She moved quickly toward her bathroom door, and Tom got up from her couch to follow her.</p><p>“It’s just a necklace.” </p><p>His tone had taken on that persuasive, everything's-fine-you’re-overreacting tone, and she snorted. “Are you kidding me.” The bathroom door led, surprise, surprise to Tom’s quarters. She whirled away from the door to find Tom standing directly behind her. He was staring at her, his mouth pursed, chin up, with a defiant look in his eyes. She squinted at him. “Are you telling me that you don’t know how personal, how… intimate a locket is? Its sole purpose is for holding a keepsake, a picture or a lock of hair or something, close to your heart.”</p><p>Tom’s eyebrow went up and his expression morphed into one that was assessing. Contemplative. “You seem to know a lot about women’s jewelry.” </p><p>She sniffed and pushed past him. </p><p>“We haven’t tried my bathroom yet,” he said. “You never know, it might lead back to the holodeck.” </p><p>“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she murmured. She paused on her trek back to the door of her quarters. “Unless,” she said, “you only did it to annoy Neelix.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to deny it. She slammed the door release and waltzed, not into the corridor, but into Tom’s quarters. She skirted his stupid lounging couch and made a bee-line for his bathroom. “Lights,” she ordered. Instead of the bathroom, they were standing in her closet; she recognized her old Maquis boots on the floor. “I give up,” she said.</p><p>“But we haven’t tried my closet yet,” Tom noted.</p><p>B’Elanna ignored him and walked through her closet to her bedroom, darted around her bed and made for her couch. She sank down and pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “No matter where we go, we end up here. Corridors are realigning, rooms are in the wrong place. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like the ship is folding in on itself.” </p><p>“Slowly and gently imploding,” Tom agreed. “I’ll bet it’s that distortion we saw in the corridor. Too bad we can’t figure out a way to reverse it.” </p><p>Imploding. The reverse of implode is explode… “I’ve got it!” She grinned at him.</p><p>“Got what?” </p><p>“We turn the implosion into an <em>ex</em>plosion!” Excitement zapped her out of her lethargy, and she shot to her feet. “If we can get back to engineering, I can set up a shock pulse, but I’d have to raise the temperature of the warp core to do it.” </p><p>“Wa—wait a minute.” Tom grabbed her arm. “A shock pulse would release subatomic particles all over the ship! Sure, it might reverse the distortion, but what makes you think it’ll stop at that? It might blow up <em>Voyager</em> along with it!”</p><p>“That’s a risk we’ll have to take. If we do nothing, we’ll be crushed.” She watched as Tom’s brain waged an inner battle behind his eyes. Finally, he nodded. </p><p>“Fine. But if you do blow <em>Voyager</em> to atoms, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” </p><p>“Yeah, well, if Neelix challenges you to a duel, don’t say <em>I</em> didn’t warn <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“It’s just a necklace,” he said, exasperation tinging his tone. “I thought she might, I dunno, want to put a pressed flower in it or something. She likes flowers. She grows them in the hydroponics bay.” </p><p>“Spend a lot of time there, do you?” She raised an eyebrow at him, and caught his snort. </p><p>“No,” he said. “I’ve maybe been there twice. When the captain ordered me to bring vegetables up to the mess.” </p><p>“Whatever,” she said, brushing aside the conversation. “How do we get to engineering to implement the pulse?” </p><p>“We don’t. Look, we’ve been trying to get anywhere but here for the last twenty minutes and we can’t. We’re stuck here.” </p><p>B’Elanna set her jaw, her lips compressing in a thin line. “That’s not good enough. What are we supposed to do, just sit here until that distortion reaches us and… and twists us up like it’s doing to the ship?” At Tom’s blank expression she heaved a frustrated sigh. </p><p>“Unless you can jury rig your replicator into an interface console, we’re out of options,” he said.</p><p>“We can’t be!” That wasn’t good enough. There was always another way. B’Elanna smacked her combadge. “Torres to engineering.” Nothing. “Torres to Kim.” Frustration rose in her when all she heard was silence. “Torres to anyone who can hear me!” </p><p>Tom’s combadge chirped. He raised a hand to his chest and tapped it. “Paris, here. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” </p><p>She huffed and sent him a scowl that likely told him exactly what he could do for her. She paced, frustration and impatience rolling off of her. “I just need to think,” she murmured. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing while some ...thing… tries to crush the ship!”</p><p>“Then lie down.” </p><p>She turned and saw Tom seated on the edge of her bed.</p><p>“Don’t even think about it,” she snapped. </p><p>“Hey, I had alpha shift this morning, and we’ve been wandering around the ship for hours. It’s probably past my bedtime.” He watched her for a moment, then patted the mattress. “You should try to relax.” </p><p>B’Elanna glared at him, and Tom raised his hands. “I just meant that your pacing isn’t doing us any good. It’s making me tired.”</p><p>She moved back toward her replicator, looped around the dining table, then headed back to her sleeping area. Tom watched her from his seat on the bed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I get it now.”</p><p>B’Elanna stopped pacing and turned toward him. He wasn’t totally useless as a junior engineer as their work on the Warp 10 project reflected and, every once in a while, he had a good idea. “What is it?” </p><p>“The locket I gave to Kes. It’s not like it’s a Klingon engagement necklace.” </p><p>She stared at him blankly for a moment, then closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. He, like half the people she’d met at the Academy, was confusing a <em>jinaq</em>, a pendant necklace traditionally given to a Klingon woman by her parents when she’d been deemed old enough and mature enough to select a mate, with the old Terran tradition of an engagement ring. </p><p>It was, at its essence, a sign that the young woman’s parents saw her as an adult, an equal, and that they trusted her judgement. It was more than an acknowledgement of her calendar age, it was an recognition of her <em>self</em>, her person-hood. But, Humans, of course, didn’t know that. Her classmates at the Academy had known a little bit about Klingon tradition—just enough to get the details wrong. She remembered the few times she’d worn a necklace to a lecture class: she’d been stopped repeatedly and asked if she was <em>betrothed</em>. Even the older woman who ran the coffee shop near the campus had asked if she’d met her fiance at the Academy, or if they were still on Qo’noS. It had taken her a few weeks to figure out that she was only asked that particular question whenever she wore a necklace. After the first time someone had assumed that she and Max were engaged, she’d stopped wearing jewelry at all.</p><p>“My parents gave one to my sister, Moira, for her sixteenth birthday,” Tom explained. “She used to keep a picture of Maxim Ochoa, the drummer for the <em>Bashing Twins</em>, inside it. She would have died before she admitted it, of course, but I snuck into her room one morning while she was showering before school and I peeked.”</p><p>B’Elanna just stared at him. “What are you talking about?” she asked. </p><p>“A locket,” Tom answered. “Only hers was shaped like a heart.” </p><p>She felt her head tilting to the side as she studied him. “Fine,” she breathed. “Good.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry I mentioned it.” </p><p>“So, what did you get her? That was a pretty big box.” </p><p>“A hoverball and a helmet.”</p><p>“What?” Tom scoffed. </p><p>B’Elanna shrugged. “Kes expressed an interest in playing with me. What’s wrong with that?” She felt that old flare of defensiveness rise in her and glared at him.</p><p>“You’d snap her in half!” Tom laughed. He rose from her bed and walked toward the couch. “You should pick on someone your own size, like Ayala or Chell.” </p><p>“Very funny,” she snapped, affronted by his insinuation that she was too rough, too <em>intense</em> to play a fair game against a beginner. “That’s what the helmet is for. She’s tougher than any of you think.” Tom frowned and she elaborated, flinging out a hand in annoyance. “You, Neelix, the Doctor. You all treat her like she’s one of Tuvok’s orchids. Like she’ll break if someone looks at her funny. Kes is tougher than you think she is. Braver, too.”</p><p>No one treated her like she might break; usually, they tiptoed around her, acting like she might explode at any moment and start ripping the heads off random ensigns. </p><p>“Actually, she asked me if I’d teach her how to fly a shuttle,” Tom commented. “I reserved some holodeck time for next week.”</p><p>B’Elanna sent him a, <em>see?</em> glower, but he was staring at the door to the corridor. Or his quarters. Or maybe the mess hall; who could tell? She snorted. He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow, but she shook her head. “I was really looking forward to that fudge cake,” she said, after a few minutes’ silence. </p><p>“I’m not big on desserts,” Tom replied. “I didn’t think Klingons liked sweets, either,” he said.</p><p>“What gave you that idea?” </p><p>Tom shrugged. “Gagh, pipius claw, heart of targ. Chocolate cake seems a little tame in comparison.”</p><p>B’Elanna snorted. “It’s not all live worms and bloodwine, you know.” Not that she wanted to eat any of it, but he didn’t have to know that.</p><p>“It’s not?” Tom asked. “Maybe for your birthday Neelix should—”</p><p>“Maybe he shouldn’t.”</p><p>“Come on,” he said, “Neelix loves an occasion. I’m sure he’d pull out all the stops.”</p><p>“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered. </p><p>He smiled at that and she caught a glint of devilry in his eyes. “When we get out of this, you can have my piece of cake,” he offered. </p><p>Several months ago, Harry had asked her to be nicer to Tom and to give him a chance. Somewhat warily, she had: coffee with him and Harry, joining them for dinner or breakfast occasionally. He wasn’t as much of an asshole as he used to be, she admitted. She’d thawed toward him and, if she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she was starting warm toward him. Not that that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a jerk sometimes. She plopped down beside him on the couch. </p><p>“You don’t think Neelix is mad about it, do you?” </p><p>She let her head drop back to rest on the back on the couch. “Maybe. Probably. He’s possessive, you know that. He gets jealous about everything. I don’t know how she can stand it.” </p><p>Tom shrugged. “Maybe she likes it. Maybe she views it as proof that he loves her.” </p><p>“<em>Puh</em>. It’s proof that he believes that she’s too dishonourable to—” She snapped her teeth together. She didn’t want to open the door to that particular discussion! “Nevermind,” she said. </p><p>“So,” Tom asked, “did your parents ever give you something like that for your birthday?” </p><p>She saw the moment he realized he’d made his mistake, but to his credit, he didn’t apologize; he pushed on. She was grateful; she didn’t want to have to remind him about her father. </p><p>“You know, something for a special occasion.” </p><p>She pressed her lips together on her reply. It wasn’t something she was particularly proud of. In fact, if she could, she would apologize. If she could, she might swallow her distaste and accept the gift. </p><p>“When I was accepted to the Academy,” she began, her voice quiet, “when I was packing to leave, my mother gave me a banner with our family crest on it. She said it was to hang on the wall of my dorm room.” </p><p>Tom turned his head and scanned the walls of her quarters before turning back to look at her. She recognized a look of sympathy on his face. “Did you lose it when the <em>Valjean</em> exploded?” </p><p>She shook her head. “Actually, I didn’t take it.” </p><p>In an act calculated to wound her mother, she had left it, unceremoniously dumped on her unmade bed along with other items that Miral had thought she should bring with her to Earth: a scroll listing the names of her mother and grandmothers—mIral, le’ngan, Qe’lIq—going back twelve generations; her first training blade, given to her over her father’s objections by her mother’s parents; a PADD of Klingon legends. It had only taken a few days for her to regret leaving everything, but by then she was on the Betazed cargo ship en route to Sol system and her new life. Ironically, shedding everything that identified her as one of her mother’s people hadn’t made her more human in anyone’s eyes. One look at her forehead, and she was immediately identified as Klingon. </p><p>“I’m sorry you lost it,” Tom said, sincerely. “Maybe you can replicate a new one?” </p><p>“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “She got it on Boreth, when we visited when I was a child. It wouldn’t be the same.” She wasn’t prepared to confess that she wasn't certain she remembered exactly what their crest looked like. That she couldn’t replicate it accurately. </p><p>“Well, I’m sure your mother kept it. You can get it when we get home.” </p><p>She opened her mouth to snap back at him, but found she couldn’t do it, not when he was trying so hard to be nice to her. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, and the look in them was soft. He looked like he understood her loss and regret. “Maybe,” she agreed. </p><p>“Oh, no…”  </p><p>Tom’s eyes rounded and he nodded toward her dining area. The bulkhead was undulating, warping. They both stood and backed toward her bedroom. B’Elanna saw that her closet had started to warp as well, and the air around it shimmered. They backed up until the wall was at their backs: they had nowhere else to go. </p><p>B’Elanna watched as the distortion wave came closer to them. This wasn’t how she thought she’d die. In a firefight with a hostile alien, maybe, or a catastrophic cascade failure in the warp engines. Maybe even starving to death on a disabled and dead-in-the-water <em>Voyager</em>, but not by being swallowed by some sort of spatial wave. “Are you afraid?” she asked.</p><p>“Me?” Tom answered. “Naw. I’m terrified.” </p><p>B’Elanna’s mouth twitched in a half smile. “Me, too.” She suddenly remembered how strong and calm he’d been in that Vidiian mine, how bravely he’d behaved when he’d confronted the guards when they’d taken Durst away.</p><p>The wave crept closer. “It’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?” he said. </p><p>He groped for her hand, and his warm fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed. The wave had reached the end of her bed, and for some reason, she wished that she’d made it this morning, that she’d straightened the covers and plumped her pillows. Tom squeezed her hand again, and she looked up at him, questioningly. </p><p>He took a deep breath and nodded toward the rolling air in front of them. She nodded her agreement, closed her eyes, and held her breath as they stepped into the wave together. She felt cold and slightly numb. There was no pain, which surprised her. She wasn’t breathing, but she could hear the sound of her heart beating in her ears, could feel Tom’s warm hand in hers, his fingers pressing tightly against the back of her hand, the warmth of his arm against her own. Then the wave passed, and she gasped a breath. </p><p>She had no real sense of time passing, no sense that anything detrimental had happened to her. She looked at Tom, and found that he was staring at her, studying her. They were still holding hands, and she let go and pulled hers from his when Tom’s combadge beeped.</p><p>
  <em>“Janeway to Lieutenant Paris.”</em>
</p><p>“Paris here, Captain.” He glanced away.</p><p>
  <em>“Are you alright? Is B’Elanna with you?”</em>
</p><p>He raised an eyebrow and she nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’re both fine.” </p><p>
  <em>”I want you both to report to the briefing room immediately.”</em>
</p><p>“On our way. Paris, out.” He gestured for her to precede him. </p><p>B’Elanna strode toward her doorway with more confidence than she’d felt in the last few hours. The doors parted onto the corridor, which was a very good sign. She slapped her combadge, “Torres to Carey, how are things in engineering?” Tom followed her into the turbolift and called for the bridge as Carey gave his report. </p><p>***</p><p>The ship was unaffected by the distortion wave and the crew were uninjured. All systems were operating within normal parameters. The distortion ring—or whatever intelligence controlled it—had inputed twenty million gigaquads of information into the ship’s computer, for a price: their entire database had been downloaded and copied into the alien’s system. They hadn’t left any clues as to their identity, or even to the fact that they were sentient beings using the distortion wave as a means of exploring<em>Voyager</em> and observing her crew. Unfortunately, understanding all of that new information that they’d left behind was going to be quite a job; it wasn’t in a language that the computer could currently access. </p><p>B’Elanna sighed and sipped her coffee, enjoying the heady, smokey flavour as it washed over her tongue. She propped her PADD on her knee and tapped a command, and the display reverted to a menu. She stared at the strange symbols and shook her head. What was the point of this gift of so much knowledge if they weren’t able to decipher it? There could be star charts here, maps to wormholes to home, or areas of the quadrant where there were plentiful minerals or food sources. There could be blueprints for new weapons (unlikely) or, better yet, for a new propulsion system that could get <em>Voyager</em> home in a year, or a month, or the blink of an eye. She might never know because the computer couldn’t make heads or tales of it. And worse, the struggle to process and understand the information was slowing down the computer’s reaction time. She would have to speak to the captain about it; they might have to make a tough decision regarding that tsunami of unintelligible information. </p><p>Her door chime sounded and she looked up. “Come in.” </p><p>Tom walked into her quarters with a smile on his face and his hands behind his back. “I was a little worried that your quarters might not be here.” </p><p>“I haven’t looked in my bathroom for an hour, you never know what might be in there.” She smiled back. </p><p>“For you,” Tom said. He moved his hand from behind his back and presented her with a fat slice of cake. B’Elanna’s eyes rounded, and she sat up straighter and set her PADD on the couch cushion beside her. “I told you I’d save you my piece,” Tom said. </p><p>“Are you sure you don’t want it?” Her mouth was actually watering. Jimbalian fudge cake was one of a handful of recipes that Neelix didn’t ruin with <em>just a touch</em> of leeola root, or Talaxian spices. Her fingers twitched. Tom had obviously noticed, because his mouth jerked upward in a suppressed smile. </p><p>“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure.” </p><p>She reached for the plate and unceremoniously cut a chunk with her fork and shoved it in her mouth. It was delicious, and it melded with the lingering taste of coffee on her tongue. She closed her eyes and <em>hmmmm</em>ed. </p><p>Tom sat on her couch, uninvited. “You cleaned up,” he said. </p><p>For a moment she thought he was referring to her. She’d taken a long, hot sonic shower after she’d clocked off-shift, then changed into her red pyjamas. When she’d dug them out of their drawer, she’d actually looked at the back wall of her closet to make sure it didn’t lead to Tom’s quarters, which was silly. She frowned, then realized that he meant that she’d cleaned her quarters. It had only taken a few minutes to finish shoving her dirty laundry into the ‘fresher, to make her bed and straighten the couch throw pillows. </p><p>“Well, I thought it was time,” she countered. </p><p>“Are you always so messy?” he asked. His eyes were twinkling, and she frowned at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it can be our secret.” </p><p>“I’m not used to having… things,” she said, gesturing around her rather spartan quarters. “I haven’t had this much stuff since I was a teenager.” Tom glanced around the small, open space and raised an eyebrow. </p><p>Most of the stuff in her quarters was Starfleet issue: the artwork on the walls, the dead plant in the corner by the dining table, the stack of PADDS piled her desk and the coffee table. She had a few changes of civilian clothing that she’d worn on the <em>Valjean</em>, her knee-high boots, and her uniforms. And her red pyjamas, which she’d replicated as soon as she’d saved the rations. If they were away on a run in the Maquis, she only brought what fit into a small rucksack, and usually didn’t bother to change out of her clothing until she had to. She didn’t really sleep onboard the <em>Valjean</em>, just grabbed a catnap whenever she needed one. They weren’t usually out for long. </p><p>She’d lost most of the stuff she did have, abandoned in her room on the hidden port on one of Nivoch VII’s moons, when the Caretaker had pulled her Maquis ship into the Delta Quadrant. It occurred to her that if she had brought that family crest with her to the Academy, if she’d kept it with her and set up a shrine to Kahless like her mother had done in their home on Kessick, it would be gone now with everything else she’d lost. </p><p>“Well,” Tom answered, “if we’re going to be here for the next seventy-five years, you might want to think about decorating.” </p><p>“But wouldn’t that be…”</p><p>“Accepting the fact that we’ll probably never get home? That we’ll never see our families again? Yeah.” He nodded. “But I’d rather be surprised to make it back before I die, than to be constantly disappointed that we’re still stuck here, like Harry.” He shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not in any hurry to see my family again, anyway. Besides, we’re celebrating birthdays, and I heard that Samantha Wildman is having a baby. It’s like we’re becoming a family.”</p><p>A dysfunctional one, B’Elanna thought. Like her own. Like Tom’s, maybe? Being with the Maquis was the first time she’d felt like she belonged anywhere since she was a little girl. </p><p>She thought of her mother: strong, intimidatingly independent and capable, forceful to a fault. Miral had been the reason why B’Elanna had applied to the Academy; she’d needed to get away from her mother’s overbearing presence. From her constant meddling in B’Elanna’s life; from her disappointment that her half-human daughter wasn’t Klingon enough for her. It was funny, at the Academy, in the Maquis, here on <em>Voyager</em>, she felt <em>too</em> Klingon. It wasn’t a new argument for her, but recent events had brought back all of her feelings of alienation and self-doubt. Tom had been with her then, too. </p><p>She glanced at her plate. There was one forkful of cake left. She offered it to him with a raised eyebrow, eager to change the subject, but he held up his hands and stood. </p><p>“I’m going to head home,” he said. </p><p>“Home?” she asked. Her eyebrow climbed even higher. </p><p>“Home is where your stuff is, right?” He smiled. Instead of heading toward her door, he skirted her couch and walked toward her bathroom. He stepped inside and called for the lights, and was back in the living area a moment later. “It was worth a try,” he shrugged. </p><p>B’Elanna laughed. </p><p>“See you later,” Tom said as he headed toward the door. “Maybe we’ll find some star maps in that data dump, figure out a way to shave off a few years on our trip home.” He waltzed out into the corridor.</p><p>She had to wonder if he’d left <em>stuff</em> behind in the Alpha Quadrant, too. </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>End note: I asked my favourite Klingon enthusiast how to properly spell beylana’s mother’s and grandmother’s names. mIral (Miral), le’ngan (L’Naan), Qe’lIq (Krelik). From that scene in Prophecy where she’s praying for her dead ancestors.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. PET SHOP - SLACKS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom Paris smiled at the bartender and shook his head at her suggestion of a glass of the ‘house blend’. Not that he was averse to trying new and interesting local beverages, but it was a little early in the day for hard liquor. “Just coffee, please.” </p>
<p>“You’re from Sol sector, aren’t you?” she asked. She reached under the counter and selected a mug, then grabbed a carafe from a warming station behind her. </p>
<p>“How could you tell?” Tom watched as she filled the mug and added what looked like a thick amber syrup and cream to the coffee. He preferred his coffee black, but held his tongue. </p>
<p>“Your accent,” she said. “Is this your first time in the Beta Quadrant, Ensign? And a trip to Risa in your junior year doesn’t count,” she noted.  </p>
<p>She slid the drink in front of him, then leaned her elbow on the bartop and rested her chin in her palm. She reminded him of Sandrine, another bar owner but from Marseille, on Earth. Tom had spent a semester there in his freshman year at the Academy, and had spent a lot of time in that bar flirting with the lovely, receptive older woman when he wasn’t playing pool. He sent this one his best dazzling smile. </p>
<p>He nodded. “I’m a ‘fleet brat,” he said. “My father is an Admiral. I’ve been to Celes II and Betazed, when I was younger. But this is my first time at Starbase 234.” He took a sip of the hot drink and it took all of his ‘fleet-bred skills to maintain his poker face and not to wrinkle his nose in distaste. </p>
<p>“Raktajino,” the bartender said. “The station is half Klingon, it’s the only coffee that sells.” </p>
<p>Starbase 234 was just outside the Klingon sector, on the border of Federation space. Tom took another swig of the Klingon coffee. It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “You’re not Klingon,” he said with a smile, noting her hollowed cheeks and sharply jutting jaw. She did have little ridges on her nose that reminded him of a Bajoran, but the four nostrils made that unlikely. “Or Human.” Really, it was bad taste to comment on someone’s species, especially when first introduced, but she’d brought it up as a topic of conversation. </p>
<p>“No, I’m not.” She tilted her head and studied him just as blatantly. “Are you here to tour the Azure Nebula? Or have you been posted here?” </p>
<p>Tom shook his head. “I’m rendezvousing with my ship.” </p>
<p>“Ahhh, your first posting?” She smiled at his surprise. “You’re as bright and shiny as that new pip on your collar, ‘fleet brat.”</p>
<p>Tom laughed. “Ensign Tom Paris.” He extended his hand to shake. </p>
<p>“Ja-sika Pul. How long are you here?” </p>
<p>“A couple of days,” Tom said. “I came in on the <em>Phobos</em>. </p>
<p>“And they left you here all by yourself?” </p>
<p>Her eyebrow climbed upward in a Human gesture, and Tom smiled. “I can look after myself.” </p>
<p>She nodded. “I’m sure you can. But here’s some advice anyway. Stay on the starbase. And if you feel the need to explore the Klingon sector, do not go in any bars and do not drink with them.”</p>
<p>Tom frowned, confused. “I thought we were all friends out here. The treaty—”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t signed by every Klingon alive. We may be in Federation space, but Qo’noS isn’t that far away and there was a time not long ago when this was disputed territory. You look,” she looked him up and down, “...breakable. Hardly worth the effort, but you never know: a belly full of bloodwine and a skull full of boredom…” she shrugged, then straightened as a large, boisterous group of Bolians entered the tavern and claimed several tables at the back. </p>
<p>“Let me know if you need anything else, Ensign Tom Paris.” She moved out from behind the bar and ambled over to the new customers. </p>
<p>Tom sipped his coffee. He pulled a compact PADD from his pocket and thumbed it on, searching for the station map. He’d left his duffle in his room. Since he had a few days at his disposal before the <em>Exeter</em> arrived he’d been assigned temporary accommodation on the upper level of the station but he had fifty hours to fill and a lot of nervous energy to burn off. There was a gym, a running track, and a pool. There was a ‘fleet mess, as well as several ethnic restaurants and bars that offered dishes from various Beta Quadrant planets. He had some credits to spend, and spent a few minutes selecting the ones he’d like to try. </p>
<p>There was also a shopping concourse, which seemed odd in the age of replicators; a throwback to the cosmopolitan market towns of ancient cities on Earth and, likely, other planets too. He might check it out, though, might pick up a gift for his mother or sisters. Some local items. Not that he was going to see any of them soon: his mother and Moira were back on Earth, but Kathleen had taken a posting at Eta Lupi in the Cerberus system, studying the black hole there. He likely wouldn’t see her again for years. Which left out buying her anything perishable or alive. </p>
<p>His eyes were caught by a heavy, jagged script on one section of the map and the translation, in Federation Standard: The Klingon district. Tom took a large gulp of his raktajino and drained the mug, tapped his credit chit on the reader, and waved a salute to the bartender as he he got up off the stool and headed for the door.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He recognized the writing as <em>plqaD</em>, Klingon script, but he had no idea what it said. He’d been wandering the Klingon market sector of the station unmolested for the last twenty minutes, looking at the shop fronts and nodding an acknowledgement to the occasional shopper. So far, he was the only non-Klingon he’d seen. He’d waltzed into the sector secure in his belonging—this was a Federation space station, after all—but after a few minutes he’d realized just how much his ‘fleet uniform made him stand out. He was attracting attention, but no one had come right out and accosted him, or questioned his reason for being in this part of the station. </p>
<p>He’d passed a shoemaker with pairs of tall, leather buckled boots in the window. Several pairs on display had the sharp, claw-like spike on the toe that made them recognizable as warrior’s footwear. He wouldn't want to be kicked by anyone wearing those, Tom decided. Others were heeled and slightly more feminine in shape, though they looked just as deadly with spikes and studded decorative strips running across the arch. There were a few bags and pouches as well, with what he could only assume were some sort of Klingon crest embossed on them. He was tempted to take out his tricorder and see, but nothing screamed ‘Tourist!’ quite like someone scanning the local written language with a tricorder. </p>
<p>Beside that shop was one that obviously sold leather armour. This time he did stop and stare at the manikin in the shop front. It was clothed in every little kid’s idea of traditional Klingon Warrior garb, including the leather tunic with sleeves made of fur and rigid pauldrons over the shoulders, boots, and a wide belt from which hung a deadly-looking blade, and a pouch. It was wearing studded leather half-gloves with wide cuffs that protected the wrists. It was an impressive sight, and Tom wondered what the weight of the outfit was; just carrying around all that leather and metal was sure to put muscle on a person. He was reminded of the chapter on Klingons in the Federation Encyclopedia of Cultures he’d read when he was a kid, with its illustrations of traditional clothing and the accompanying colouring pages. He smiled. If he’d worn down his blue crayons on the Bolian and Andorian chapters, the Klingon chapter had used up the brown and black ones entirely. </p>
<p>He walked past a restaurant with screens exhibiting the various dishes on offer—some of them moving—and tried not to gawk. He’d sampled <em>gagh</em> on a dare as a teenager while he was in Academy Prep, but his had been replicated, which wasn’t nearly the same thing as fresh grown-on-the-premises, live, slimy serpent worms. </p>
<p>Next to the restaurant was a shop with a large bird in the window, and Tom stopped again. More than a metre in length from crown to tail-tip, its feathers were a shockingly bright mix of green and blue and red. It reminded him of a Terran parrot, only much larger. He wondered what the shop could be selling with a decoration like that in the window—vacation packages to Earth’s Amazon sector?—when it turned its head and looked directly at him. He jerked in surprise; he’d assumed it was a replicated fake. A decoration. It blinked at him, its translucent inner eyelid closing before the outer one, and Tom drew back in distaste. He was good about sentient aliens, he really was. You couldn’t be the son of a career Starfleet brass without learning very early to gauge your reaction to anyone foreign or unusual.  But people generally acted like people, usually. They were restrained to a point, and behaved in predictable patterns. Giant birds with a wingspan wider than he was tall, a serrated beak, and thirty centimeter-long claws that reminded him of scimitars and could easily slash his throat or gut him, was another thing. He took a step back. </p>
<p>“Magnificent, isn’t she?” An older Klingon man approached Tom from the back of  the shop. He produced a live rodent and flipped it through the air toward the bird. She caught it in her beak and swallowed it whole. He reached up and petted her head, trailing his hand down her back and over one folded wing. “She is a <em>parbIng</em>,” he said. </p>
<p>Tom nodded. “She’s certainly impressive.” </p>
<p>“She’s not a pet,” the Klingon said derisively, “if you’re looking for one, Human.” </p>
<p>Tom drew a breath. Klingons, notoriously belligerent and confrontational, were difficult to read. He’d never actually met one before. “I’m just looking,” he said. </p>
<p>“Ah, yes, what do your people call it? <em>Sight-seeing</em>. She is an impressive sight to behold!” </p>
<p>The bird pecked at his hair and vest, then nuzzled his shoulder, and Tom realized just why he was fully dressed in leather from his neck to his fingertips to his toes. She danced along her perch and bumped the shop owner with her body, then flapped a wing at him. He laughed and pulled another rodent from a small cage on a counter next to him, and tossed it to the bird. Her beak came together with a <em>clack</em>, and Tom would swear he heard a crunching sound. Did she have teeth as well? He wouldn’t doubt it.</p>
<p>“Come,” the proprietor said, “I have just the thing for you to ship home to your mother.” </p>
<p>Tom followed him deeper into the shop, past large cages with more birds. One reared up and squawked loudly at him, flapping its wings as it screeched. Tom grimaced at the noise but his host merely laughed. There were several glass-walled cages, much like aquariums, but instead of being filled with water, they contained dirt or sand and leaves or other nesting material. Tom paused and crouched down to look. He could make out a small toad-like creature, though it had long, needle-like fangs, and something with an armoured and spiked shell on its back trundled along shuffling through its bedding before it slid into a pool of water. Another cage held a large spider-like insect with a bulbous body and at least seven legs—it ran up a web as soon as it saw him, so he lost count of its appendages. Yet another contained a snake-thing with numerous tiny legs. </p>
<p>Tom briefly wondered if he was supplying the restaurant next door… </p>
<p>“Look at these,” the proprietor suggested, motioning to a cage full of furred mammals. They had large, dark eyes and long, soft ears, and one hopped toward them inquisitively. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to waste your time,” Tom said. “I can’t bring anything onto my ship.” He stooped down to peer at them, and the one nearest to him bared its teeth and hissed.</p>
<p>“Maybe I like your company, Human,” the Klingon replied. “They make a good pet for a child,” he said, referring to the ‘rabbit’, “once you file down their teeth.” </p>
<p>Tom didn’t know whether he was joking or not… He noticed a doorway behind the counter, half hidden by one of the bird cages, and with a sign overhead. He tried to decipher the spiky script.  <em>vay’ DaneHbogh yIchargh</em>. He had a few, rudimentary words in Klingon: hello, where is the bathroom? I don’t understand.</p>
<p>He frowned. He glanced at the older man, who gestured to the tricorder clipped to Tom’s belt. “You don’t read our language, Human?” he laughed.</p>
<p>“Tom Paris. No, I don’t, sorry,” Tom shook his head. He aimed the tricorder at the sign and read the translation: <em>Conquer what you desire.</em> He frowned in puzzlement. </p>
<p>The shop owner stared at him, and Tom stepped into the room. It was small and almost empty. In one corner sat a table with a small cage on it. The cage was covered by a cloth. Curious. Tom glanced behind him to find the Klingon standing there watching him. </p>
<p>“Not many venture into this room and fewer still are brave enough to lift the cloth,” he said gravely. </p>
<p>Tom felt a little curl of fear in his belly. After fanged bunnies and the assembly of creepy-crawlies out front, he couldn’t imagine what horror was shut away out of sight behind the counter! He didn’t particularly want to find out, but Starfleet honour was at stake, he recognized that. He reached out tentatively and his fingers brushed the stiff cloth. He took a slow breath, let it out just as slowly, then tugged the covering from the cage. It slid onto the tabletop to reveal a small, round ball of reddish-brown fluff. He couldn’t discern ears or feet or even a head, but it started to move toward him in a rolling gate, and it emitted a sound that was a cross between a purr and trill. </p>
<p>Tom turned back to the Klingon and noted his grimace but, to his credit, he stood proud and tall in the doorway. “May I?” Tom said.</p>
<p>The Klingon motioned his acquiescence with a jerk of his hand. Tom glanced back at the little fur-ball, then reached for the top of the cage and unclipped the door and swung it back. He reached into the cage and the tribble rolled into his palm, purring and throbbing with uncontained joy. Tom pulled it out of the cage and held it high against his chest, under his chin. It trilled and chirped and practically vibrated against him. He laughed. He’d heard of tribbles, and had studied the incident on space station K-7 when he was a kid. Hell, Moria had a whole collection of stuffed tribbles including a mother with a full belly of baby ones. But he’d never held a real, live one before. </p>
<p>What was a Klingon pet store doing with a tribble? A thought occurred to him, and he held it just a little tighter. Was it possible that it was… food for that big bird? He would purchase it and smuggle it aboard the <em>Exeter</em>! What was it...? If you watered it, or… fed it after midnight? Moira would know, and he could get a message to her via subspace. If she answered immediately, he’d know how to look after it before he shipped out. </p>
<p>“It’s not for sale,” the proprietor cut him off before he could even ask.  </p>
<p>“Look, friend,” Tom began. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of—”</p>
<p>“It is a test, for the young targs who blunder into my shop and think they are brave.”</p>
<p>Tom stroked the tribble, enjoying its purr. “So, it’s not…” His eyes flicked to the birdcage beyond the shop owner’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“What?” He turned and followed Tom’s line of sight, then turned back with a roar of laughter. The tribble tensed in Tom’s hands and chittered. “It is more valuable to me as a lesson for foolish young warriors,” the Klingon said. </p>
<p>Tom nodded, understanding, and grinned. He supposed that he must look like a foolish young soldier himself to the older man, and he wondered if he’d passed the test. </p>
<p>“Come, Tom Paris,” the Klingon said, leading Tom out of the room and back into the shop. He reached behind the cage of not-bunnies. “Take this,” the man said.</p>
<p>He pulled up a small, wriggling porcine creature with hooved feet and bristly fur that looked more like coarse hair. He shoved it into Tom’s hands. It squealed and writhed, and Tom almost dropped it. The Klingon shoved it against Tom’s chest and barked, “With both hands.” and Tom obediently brought up his other hand to help support the squirming… piglet? It snuffled and chittered for a few moments, then seemed to calm down and poked its snout into the seam between his arm and his ribs. Tom was momentarily charmed. It wasn’t soft, particularly, though it did have a ruff of fluffy fur around its neck and over its front shoulders, and a row of pliant spikes down its spine. Its hind hooves dug into Tom’s belly as it rooted deeper into his bent arm, then it relaxed and was a dead weight in his hands. </p>
<p>“What…?” he asked. He was charmed despite himself. He’d had dogs as a kid, and Moira had picked up a stray cat, flea-ridden and ill-tempered, when she was a teenager, but he’d never handled anything like this before. </p>
<p>“A <em>targh</em>. A child’s pet. When grown, they are loyal and will defend your child to the death.” </p>
<p>Tom’s eyebrow rose. “I don’t have children,” Tom said. “But you are sweet, aren’t you?” </p>
<p>He scratched the baby targ on the top of the head, between its soft ears, and its eyes closed. It snuffled in contentment. Tom glanced around the shop, still petting the little targlet. He wondered if it was falling asleep in his arms. He idly scratched its ears and ran his thumb over its closed eye. Its snout was pressed against his arm, and he felt the heat of its breath through his uniform sleeve. He felt something else, too: a warm, wetness spreading across his belly and seeping down his pelvis to his thigh. Something <em>splopped</em> on the toe of his boot. </p>
<p>The Klingon proprietor roared with laughter, and the little targ jerked in Tom’s arms and let out a panicked squeal. It started to writhe and kick, and the Klingon took it from him and dropped it into its enclosure. It grunted and squeaked, then ran for comfort of the rest of the baby targs. </p>
<p>Tom shook his foot and liquid rolled off the patent leather. He frowned in distaste and plucked at his uniform, pulling it away from his body. The proprietor handed him a rag, and Tom mopped the targlet piss from his uniform pants and his boot. </p>
<p>The Klingon laughed. “Good luck will follow you, Tom Paris.”</p>
<p>His host motioned for Tom to follow him once again. On the floor at the foot of the counter was a basket of stuffed toys and he grabbed one and tossed it to Tom. “Perhaps this is better suited to your clean, shining Federation starship.”</p>
<p>Tom caught it by reflex. It was a small stuffed animal, firmer and less squooshy than Tom would have thought. It had a fawn-coloured body, and grey hooves and face, with a little black snout and beady black eyes. It had a ruff of grey fur over its fore-shoulders, and a row of dark brown felted spikes down its back. And little white stuffed-cloth tusks poking out of its open mouth. A tag hanging from it’s front hock had a stylized drawing of a targ, with the word <em>tobvoy</em> printed below it. </p>
<p>A stuffed Toby-the-Targ, from the series of children’s holonovels and books. Tom laughed; Moira would fight him to the death for it. He happily paid for it, and tucked it into a pocket. </p>
<p>“Come to the tavern this evening when I close the shop,” the Klingon said. “I must tell my friends about the brave warrior who wasn’t afraid of my tribble.” </p>
<p>Tom smiled and nodded. “I”ll be there,” he said. </p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. POISON - I BEG YOU</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>*****</p>
<p>“Have you met the new pilot yet?” </p>
<p>Seska’s words interrupted B’Elanna’s concentration and she jerked. Her fingers spasmed on the hyperspanner she held, and she almost hit the outer housing of the plasma compression line with the energy beam. That would have been fun. If she had, she wouldn’t have to worry about fixing this piece of shit ancient engine anymore. She knew she should snap at Seska to be more careful and to not interrupt her while she was working with delicate equipment, but her tone of voice caught B’Elanna’s attention. Obviously, there was something about the new pilot that she should know, or should want to know. </p>
<p>B’Elanna straightened and turned toward her friend. “No,” she acknowledged. “I’ve been busy trying to get this piece of shit working.” </p>
<p>Seska’s gaze travelled over the engine parts laid out on the floor and the array of tools lined up beside them. She returned her attention to B’Elanna, smirk firmly in place. “He’s ex-Starfleet.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna shrugged. Big deal. So were Eddington and Cal Hudson, two of the leaders of the resistance. So was Chakotay. So was she, sort of. “So?” she said.</p>
<p>“So, I found out why he’s <em>ex</em>.” She smirked again, her features morphing into an enigmatic expression. </p>
<p>B’Elanna rolled her eyes and turned back to her engine. She didn’t have time to play twenty questions with Seska, not if she was going to get the <em>Liberty</em> in the sky on time for their run to Tracken. </p>
<p>Seska leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “I heard that he killed three of his crewmates.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna stilled and thumbed off the ‘spanner. Seska had finally caught her attention. She glanced around the engine room, and dropped her own volume when she responded. “He’s a murderer?” Impossible! Unless he’d broken out of prison… </p>
<p>“As good as,” Seska confirmed. “I heard he was drunk and crashed a shuttle. Killed three officers. He was thrown out of Starfleet for it, but because his father is some big, influential admiral he managed to avoid going to jail.” </p>
<p>“Hmmmph,” B’Elanna grunted. “If that was true, Chakotay would never have hired him to fly—”</p>
<p>“That’s just it; he’s supposed to be a hotshot pilot. Before the accident, he’d won some sort of award or something for flying: fastest whatever. Chakotay found out all about him.” </p>
<p>“So… maybe it was a wake up call. Maybe he’s stopped drinking.” There was more than one still on their base, B’Elanna knew that. Chakotay knew it, too. Aside from fighting and blowing Cardassians to Hell, there was nothing to do here besides fuck and drink. After every raid they’d either toast their victory or their dead. Most of the crew ended up getting drunk. Chakotay turned a blind eye to it—as long as you did your job and didn’t put anyone else in jeopardy, he didn’t care what anyone did on their off time. B’Elanna wasn’t a stranger to the bottle herself, but she eventually recognized that most of her bad decisions were made when her logic centres were numbed. She’d stopped joining in the celebrations several months ago. </p>
<p>“Apparently not. Chakotay told me he peeled him off a barstool. It took a two month advance on his wages to pay off his bill—”</p>
<p>“This is the engine room.” </p>
<p>Chakotay’s voice bounced off the metal grillwork and bulkheads, and B’Elanna wasn’t the only one to turn her head to look at him and the man beside him. He was younger than B’Elanna had thought he’d be, and more attractive even under a layer of <em>skeeve</em>. He looked rumpled, not dirty, but like he hadn’t taken any care with his appearance in a long time. He needed a shave and a haircut, and to be honest, a change of clothing would go a long way in making him look less like the drunken bum that Seska had alluded to. </p>
<p>Seska had straightened and raised her chin, and B’Elanna saw a look pass between her and Chakotay. Seska smiled and moved toward him without even a backward glance at B’Elanna. She sighed. Seska was her best friend here, in the Maquis, and a reliable source of news and gossip from the other ships and Maquis settlements. B’Elanna liked her. She was fun, and pushed B’Elanna out of her inclination to immerse herself in work; she’d dragged her out to a few bars and markets when they were planetside, and when she let herself, she usually had a good time in Seska’s company. But it amazed her how she could change from a fun, sometimes catty friend into a compliant seductress as soon as Chakotay entered her line of sight. </p>
<p>She’d reached him now, and leaned up to plant a lingering kiss on his cheek as his arm went around her. B’Elanna looked away. The guts of her engine were still spread out on the deck, and she probably had another three hours work before she could run a diagnostic on it to see if it would break—again—when their fancy new pilot tried to engage the impulse engines. </p>
<p>“I’m Tom Paris, you must be our chief engineer.” </p>
<p>He was standing close enough that she could feel his body heat radiate toward her. At least he didn’t stink, proof enough that he had bathed before he’d come. She glanced beyond his shoulder—Chakotay and Seska had left—then redirected her attention to him. He was taller than she’d thought when she’d seen him from across the room, and younger still. She’s assumed he was on the hard side of his thirties when she’d seen in the doorway, but she realized he couldn’t be much older than herself. He was close enough that she could see the fine lines that spread from the corners of his eyes, and the dusky purple bags under them. He truly looked like shit. But his eyes were a clear, vivid blue, and he was smiling at her, showing beautifully shaped, white teeth. He had a nice mouth, she decided. </p>
<p>He was standing there, in front of a half a dozen members of the crew, with his hand extended, waiting for her to shake it. She didn’t. “What makes you think I’m the chief engineer?” she asked. “What did Chakotay tell you?” She turned her attention back to the engine. Of course, she was the only half-Klingon in the room, she just wanted to see if he had the guts to say it.</p>
<p>“He told me that he had the most beautiful chief engineer in the quadrant.” He shrugged, and the action accentuated his broad shoulders. “I figured that had to be you.” </p>
<p>His mouth turned up in another smile, and the look in his eyes softened. She’d been on the receiving end of that look before. She stifled a sigh; stifled the urge to slam him in the gut, too. Chakotay needed him in working order, not in pieces on the deck like her engine. She chose to ignore his blatant come-on. </p>
<p>“You seem to be having a problem with your engine,” he said. </p>
<p>Her lips twitched. Fine. It was an obvious observation and, as flirting went, it lacked a certain amount of effort. Maybe that was just the way he was: he flirted as naturally as breathing. </p>
<p>“I’m former Starfleet,” he said, “so I know a little about engineering systems if you need a hand.” </p>
<p>She whirled on him, his off-hand offer riling her more than Seska’s gossip about him. “I don’t want you to touch my systems without my explicitly telling you to, is that clear? I have more than enough actual engineers who are familiar with this ship to <em>give me a hand</em>. All I need is for some rocket-jockey who <em>thinks</em> he knows his way around an IPS system to start a cascade failure and put everyone’s lives at risk!”</p>
<p>He stiffened, and his eyes went flinty. “Believe it not, <em>chief</em>, I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t know what I was doing. And I’m not in the habit of putting my crewmates' lives at risk.” </p>
<p>“That’s not what I’ve been told,” she said. As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted speaking them. Hurt flashed across his face before he very obviously schooled his features into that expressionless, Starfleet <em>mask</em>. She didn’t know the story behind the incident that Seska had mentioned. She had no idea if it were true, or just the regular, overblown, cruel gossip that seemed to fuel the Maquis’ boring days when they weren’t risking their lives on a run. </p>
<p>“Alright,” Paris said evenly. “Noted. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” </p>
<p>He turned on his heel and left, leaving B’Elanna with a rush of adrenaline and feeling like she’d just snapped at a small child. Tom Paris was no child. He could take care of himself. </p>
<p>***<br/>A year later…</p>
<p>“Do I have to beg you? B’Elanna, I beg you, please come tonight.” Harry’s mouth rose in a lopsided grin that made him look about five years old. “You two are my only friends on the ship, and I’d like to spend one evening with both of you, instead of having to divide my time between one or the other.” </p>
<p>“I don’t know, starfleet. If I go at all, I was planning to sit with Seska and Jonas.” </p>
<p>“So, you can sit with me, Tom, Seska and Jonas. And anyone else who wants to join us.” He sent her a big-eyed, baby targ look. “Come on, maquis, it’ll be good for morale to see the two crews together at the same table.” </p>
<p>He probably wasn’t wrong. Unless Janeway allowed the Maquis crew to take the ship’s shuttles and go off on their own, or Chakotay led an insurrection and they took over the ship, they were going to be stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. Maybe for their entire future. At some point, someone had to show good faith and at least pretend that the two crews could spend an evening together doing something other than their jobs. </p>
<p>Paris had written a holodeck programme and opened it up to the crew, and he and Harry had issued an invitation via the ship’s <em>biological messaging system</em> to anyone who wanted to play a little pool and drink some synthaholic French wine or beer to join them on holodeck two at twenty-one hundred hours. She hadn’t been planning to go; their tussle with that cloud-like life form had left <em>Voyager</em> in a need of a few, thankly minor, repairs, but Chakotay had dropped by engineering after lunch and personally asked her to attend. <em>As chief engineer, it would be good for your staff morale if you showed your face, played a few games. I expect to see you there, Lieutenant.</em></p>
<p>She’d never been ordered to go to a bar and have fun before. She didn't particularly like it now. Harry was still staring at her with that disappointed five-year-old face of his, and she sighed and threw up her hands. “Fine, starfleet. I can sit with you and Paris and have one drink. But don’t expect me to play. There’s a reason I’m in engineering not tactical; I’m a lousy shot.” </p>
<p>Harry grinned and his entire face lit up: he looked even more like a five-year-old than he did a minute ago. She felt about five hundred, lately. “Great! See you tonight,” Harry said. He headed toward the doors, but before he stepped through he turned and sent her a salute. </p>
<p>B’Elanna just shook her head. Apparently he could talk her into anything. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“I’m telling you, why else would he be on <em>Voyager</em> if he weren’t a spy all along? It’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?” </p>
<p>“What coincidence? He’s admitted that Janeway got him out of that penal colony so he could track down our ship.” B’Elanna rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for Seska’s imaginings tonight. She wasn’t in the mood for much tonight. </p>
<p>As soon as she’d seen him on the stairs of the Ocampan colony, she’d recognized him immediately. Same dark blonde hair, same vivid blue eyes. Different clothing. He’d obviously been welcomed back into Starfleet, but he’d lost some weight; they must not be treating him as well as he’d hoped, she thought. </p>
<p>When she’d first seen him, she’d thought she must be hallucinating, though why she’d hallucinate about a guy she hadn’t seen in almost a year, she didn’t know. Hadn’t seen and had barely thought about. He’d been picked up by a ‘fleet patroller while on a supply run to Bardeezi, or so the scuttlebutt had said. To them, he’d taken off in a shuttle, but not made his rendezvous. He’d simply disappeared and they’d assumed he was dead. They hadn’t found out about his capture until a month later, when they’d deciphered a dispatch from DS9, transmitted to Starfleet Command on Earth. </p>
<p>He’d helped her up the stairs and out of a hole in the parched Ocampan ground, then had wound her arm over his shoulder, and curled his own arm around her waist as he and Neelix had hustled her toward the beam-up spot. Her head had flopped onto his shoulder, and his scent had invaded her nose, curled around her brain and sparked a memory of his standing too close to her in the <em>Liberty’s</em> engine room. He’d smelled familiar, <em>felt</em> familiar, and she’d wanted to lean into him and let him carry her exhausted body back to the ship. </p>
<p>“If you believe he was ever really in that penal colony at all.” Seska cut into her memories. “<em>Think</em>, B’Elanna. Janeway served under his father when she first graduated from Starfleet. Their families have known each other for almost twenty years.” </p>
<p>“Which is why Janeway went to him and not another Maquis.”</p>
<p>“A real Maquis would never have betrayed us! He was never a real Maquis. He was inserted into our cell to spy on us. And when we didn’t welcome him into our group, he was extracted before anyone could catch on to what he really was.” </p>
<p>“Extracted? Do you hear yourself? You're starting to sound paranoid.” B’Elanna sighed and sipped her beer. She’d heard it all before from Seska, and she didn't believe it then, either. “Harry is his best friend. He told me how they met on Deep Space 9; how Paris prevented him from being swindled by a Ferengi. Paris told him all about his history: the shuttle accident at Caldik Prime that killed those three people; his being cashiered out of Starfleet, then joining us and getting captured. Are you saying you don’t believe he was in that penal colony with the rest of the captured Maquis?”</p>
<p>Seska snorted her disbelief. “Do you believe either of them? Come on, B’Elanna, you’re not that naive. He was part of Janeway’s crew all along.” </p>
<p>“Well that would be tricky since <em>Voyager’s</em> first mission was to track us down after the Caretaker pulled us away from the Badlands all the way out here.” She shook her head. “If Tom was never thrown out of Starfleet, how do you account for those three dead officers in the shuttle crash?”</p>
<p>“It’s a cover story! Invented to generate sympathy among the Maquis so he could spy on us!” </p>
<p>“Sympathy?” It was B’Elanna’s turn to snort; she didn’t know too many Maquis who would cry over three dead Starfleet officers. Or one being cashiered out of the ‘fleet. “The Maquis crew hates him,” she said. “And he hasn’t exactly been embraced by the Starfleet crew either. Harry wasn’t lying when he said he was Tom’s only friend.” Which wasn’t exactly what Harry said, but if a <em>notqa’</em> was a bird of prey, and a Bird of Prey was a Klingon warship, then for her purposes a <em>notqa’</em> was a warship. </p>
<p>“I’m just saying you should watch yourself around Harry Kim,” Seska hissed. “I don’t believe that he’s as innocent as he lets on.” </p>
<p>“B’Elanna, join me for a game.” </p>
<p>Chakotay had a way of asking that sounded suspiciously like an order. B’Elanna sighed and stood. Anything was better than sitting here with Seska blathering her theories about Tom Paris in her ear. She stood and took the pool cue that he offered. When they reached the table, Paris and Harry were there waiting for them. B’Elanna stopped short and leaned in to Chakotay to say, “Maquis against Starfleet? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” She’d meant it as a jibe, a gentle reminder that this little show of good cheer was his idea. But he took her reminder seriously, of course. </p>
<p>“You’re right. Mister Kim,” he directed at Harry, “you’ll partner with me.” </p>
<p>Goodie. </p>
<p>Paris walked around the table to stand with her. He stared at her a little too long, then glanced at Chakotay. There was still a palpable tension between the two men. “Should we flip a coin to see who breaks first?” He raised an eyebrow that could, under certain circumstances, be considered mocking.</p>
<p>“That’s not necessary,” Chakotay said, not rising to the bait. “I think we should let B’Elanna have the first shot.” </p>
<p>Didn’t she wish; with a phaser on stun set for wide dispersal. She sucked a breath and bent over the table to line up her shot. Paris folded himself in half as he leaned over the table toward her. If he was planning to give her advice on her shot… </p>
<p>He didn’t. Instead, he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re on my side, Torres.” </p>
<p>She pulled back on her cue and shot it forward with more force that was strictly necessary. She pretended the cue ball was his smirking face.</p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. TRUE LOVE’S KISS - RAINS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: since today is the 24th of September, and this is prompt 24, I’m officially a month behind. This idea has been in my head for at least 15 years. The prompt has really just given me an excuse to write it.</p><p>*****</p><p>He’d been staring at her all through dinner. He’d tried not to, but she was seated almost directly across the table from him and she looked… fragile? apprehensive? Like she’d rather be anywhere else but here, in the mess, at a private officer’s dinner celebrating Tuvok’s promotion. A couple of times, he’d caught her staring at him. </p><p>They’d spoken, of course, but they hadn’t really been able to <em>talk</em> since they’d been rescued three days ago. He’d had a ‘hiccup’ in his recovery—something about cerebral hypoxia—and the Doc had kept him in sickbay for observation. B’Elanna had been released almost immediately. She’d left without saying a word to him, and hadn’t even made a joke about his having a brain injury. Not that it would have been funny. None of this was funny. </p><p>They hadn’t been able to talk since they’d been rescued. Oh, they’d said things like, ‘thanks, Harry, I’m glad we’re okay, too’ and ‘can you pass the salt’ and, in one memorable exchange in main engineering, Tom had said, ‘Baytart told me that the starboard thruster is acting up again’. She’d countered with, ‘Have him file a report’ then Carey had interrupted them. He hadn’t been able to get her alone. Either Harry was with them, or she’d been surrounded by her staff, or she’d been working gamma while he was on alpha. He wondered if she’d arranged it so she wouldn’t have to see him. </p><p>Then Chakotay’s shuttle had disappeared and everyone had concentrated on finding and rescuing him which led, of course, to Tuvok’s promotion and tonight’s officer’s dinner. </p><p>He felt her eyes on him again, but when he looked at her, she glanced away. Tuvok was finishing his speech, and Tom smiled and applauded with everyone else. He tossed his napkin onto his plate and stood, but B’Elanna was already out the door. He skirted the table and followed her into the corridor, his longer legs making up for his late start. The mess doors <em>swooshed</em> shut behind him and he broke into a lope, but before he could get up to speed, he rounded the bend in the corridor and there she was.</p><p>“B’Elanna!” </p><p>She stopped, her head turning, her eyes flicking toward him, then away. She turned to face him; she looked resolved. “Tom,” she acknowledged. </p><p>“This is ridiculous,” he said, the words formed from his frustration at the situation between them and forced their way out of his mouth before he could think of anything better to say. “It’s been three days and we haven’t said a word to each other.” </p><p>“I know, I know,” she nodded. “We have to talk.” </p><p>She folded her arms in front of her chest and Tom recognized the Torres Defensive Wall. He felt a lump of fear in his belly. Disappointment. Those four words had never boded well for him when they came from a woman, especially when they came from a woman he cared about, but he nodded. He was going to pry an answer from here right here, right now. He was tired of wondering if she’d meant what she’d said to him while they were hanging in space. Tired of wondering if she’d only said it to make him feel better about their imminent death. Of course, if he didn’t ask, she couldn’t answer, and if she didn’t answer, she wouldn’t be able to let him down easy and confirm that she hadn't meant what she’d said when they were about to die. If he didn’t ask, she couldn’t deny it, and she would still love him. Maybe. </p><p>But he had to <em>know</em>.</p><p>Nerves made him almost breathless. “About what you said,” he began. He moved a little closer to her, not wanting to be overheard by anyone who may be passing in the corridor. She fidgeted as she stared up at him, waiting and expectant, and he knew he had to just blurt it out. “I mean, the part about being in love with me,” he clarified. </p><p>She gave a little nod, looked away, looked back. Tom plunged onward. “I realise you were suffering from oxygen deprivation and we were literally seconds away from death.” Stop talking! his brain ordered. Stop giving her an excuse to deny it. His mouth didn’t listen. “So I know you probably didn't mean it—”</p><p>“No, no,” she cut him off. She brushed back her hair and raised her chin, a sure sign that she was mustering her courage. Tom’s stomach sank. </p><p>“I meant it.” Her voice quavered slightly. </p><p>He felt weak with relief. He wanted to grin, laugh. He wanted to crow with victory. But she was still talking.</p><p>“But I don't expect you to reciprocate.” She flapped her hands between them, gesturing toward him, then slicing through the air. “Really, you can just pretend that I didn't say it.” </p><p>She looked at him again, raised her chin. Squared her shoulders. Tom smiled. Warmth spread through him, and a contained excitement coiled in his belly. </p><p>“In fact,” she continued, “let's just pretend that I didn't—”</p><p>“Shut up,” Tom said.</p><p>He didn’t mean to grab her. In his fantasy of this moment, she’d been standing over his bio bed, concerned and relieved that he was going to be okay after whatever incident had landed him in sickbay again. Or she stood up from her chair in the mess and rounded the table, completely ignoring Harry, and grabbed him by his uniform front. Or she rang his door chime late at night, just as he was about to go to bed. Or she walked onto the bridge, in front of the captain and everyone, spun his chair around and told him that she loved him. She would melt into his arms and <em>she</em> would kiss <em>him</em> silly!</p><p>He didn’t mean to grab her. He certainly didn't mean to knock her backwards against the bulkhead. He absolutely meant to cup her cheek and touch her hair and kiss her until they were both breathless. But he didn’t mean to slam his lips onto hers, to catch her in mid-sentence, with her mouth still open about to form her next word. </p><p>Neither one of them said anything for a minute. She tasted sweet, and he caught a hint of the spicy dressing Neelix had used to marinate the vegetables for tonight’s meal, and the lingering taste of coffee on her tongue. But mostly, she tasted like <em>her</em>: sweet and spicy and warm. A flavour that had haunted him for the last six months…</p><p>She reached for him and her fingers grazed his jaw, and Tom pulled back just a little, just to catch his breath before he pulled her closer, before he leaned his weight against her and pushed her back against that wall. Her body rose just slightly, and her breasts pressed against his chest as his mouth settled more firmly onto hers. </p><p>She loved him! And he—</p><p>“Ah, Mister Paris, there you are.” The Doctor appeared from out of nowhere and Tom jerked. B’Elanna slipped out of his grip and skirted around the Doc, who didn’t even acknowledge that she was there.</p><p>“I was just leaving,” she said. She shot a quick glance at Tom. “Lieutenant.”</p><p>He watched her hightail it around a bend in the corridor, heading toward the turbolift, missing her already. He swung his gaze back to the Doctor. If he could get this over with quickly… “What can I do for you, Doc?”</p><p>“The Captain has authorised me to recruit someone with advanced medical training to help out in Sickbay,” the Doctor announced. </p><p>Tom wondered what that had to do with him, hoping it meant that he was off-the-hook for medic duties now. He could still feel B’Elanna’s kiss; still feel the pressure of her lips on his, her warmth. He raised his thumb to his mouth to capture the feeling, and glanced along the corridor in the direction where she’d gone, his concentration straying from the Doc’s conversation. </p><p>“Unfortunately,” the Doctor continued, “the most qualified crewmember is you.” </p><p>What? Tom’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You want me to be the new nurse?” He couldn’t possibly be the most qualified crewmember on board! He’d missed Kes more than once since she’d left the ship. This was one of those times.</p><p>“If that's the title you prefer,” the Doctor nodded. “It will only be temporary. Three duty shifts a week. Report to Sickbay at oh six hundred hours. Bring a tricorder and a smile.” </p><p>Tom nodded. “Sure, Doc. Oh six hundred.” Which gave him ten hours with B’Elanna. If he could catch her. “I’ll be there.” He turned away from the Doctor and ran.</p><p>Where would she go? Engineering? Her quarters? She was tricky: sometimes she faced him head on, other times she hid. He was raising his hand to tap his combadge and ask the computer where she was when… there she was, leaning against the wall across from the turbolift, arms crossed over her chest, starting down at the carpet. Relief made him giddy. She must have heard him because she looked up. </p><p>It was dumb. Hokey. But their eyes met across the corridor and she straightened. Her mouth twitched in the beginning of a smile, and heat flooded him. He’d barely taken a step toward her when the turbolift doors opened and Simms and Baytart exited, mid-conversation. Pablo nodded at Tom as they cut between him and B’Elanna, and headed for the mess. Tom glanced over at her; her head was lowered again, but she was staring at him, and that little smile was back. Tom stepped toward the turbolift, one eyebrow raised in invitation, and she pushed off from the wall and joined him. </p><p>“Deck nine, section twelve,” she ordered the computer. </p><p>The smile she sent him stuttered his breath. He swallowed. “Mine are closer,” he said. She grinned at that and called for his deck, and he was about to reach for her when Baxter hurried down the corridor toward them. </p><p>“Hold the ‘lift!” </p><p>Tom let his hand drop. Both he and B’Elanna turned to face the doors just as Baxter scooted into the turbolift and stood between them. It wasn’t a conscious thing, to hide the way he felt about her—the way they felt about each other—but it was too new to broadcast, too new to risk exposure to ridicule. They passed deck three and Tom realized that they needed a reason for her to follow him off the ‘lift. </p><p>“You said you left that report in your quarters, Lieutenant?” </p><p>B’Elanna had turned her head toward him, one eyebrow raised in enquiry. She was a step ahead of him, of course. “Yes,” Tom nodded, fighting a grin. “Did you want to come grab it or should I drop it off to you?” His voice sounded high. He took a breath and slanted a glance at Baxter; he didn’t appear to notice anything amiss. </p><p>The turbolift doors opened with a quiet <em>swish</em> and B’Elanna gestured toward the corridor. “After you,” Tom said. His voice was definitely too high. He followed her out of the ‘lift, ears attuned to the sound of the doors closing. As soon as they did, he reached for her and pulled her toward him. He was just about to kiss her again when he heard the sound of a door opening and booted feet on the carpet. They sprang apart. This time he did laugh. </p><p>Fitzgerald appeared and nodded at them both as he passed. “Tom,” he said. “Lieutenant.” Tom smiled and nodded his hello.</p><p>“My staff ran a diagnostic on the starboard thruster the other day, Lieutenant,” B’Elanna said. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” </p><p>Fitzgerald had called for the turbolift, and was waiting, doing his best to not look like he was listening to them. “And I’m telling you, Lieutenant, it’s slow to respond.” </p><p>“Maybe you’re not as quick inputting commands as you think you are…?” Her eyes had darkened and her tone was downright silky. </p><p>“Oh, I assure you, my reflexes are as good as they always were. And,” he lowered his voice as they reached his door, “I’m very good with my hands. I know all the right buttons to push.” </p><p>He proved that statement by tapping in his passcode without taking his eyes from her face. She followed him into his quarters and they both paused just the other side of the threshold, waiting for the doors to close. As soon as they did, he pulled her closer and kissed her. One arm wrapped around her waist while he buried the fingers of his other hand in her hair, anchoring her in place. Her lips were soft, her mouth pliant and welcoming, and Tom’s nerve endings zinged in response to the feel of her mouth on his. Her own arms were around him, and she’d raised up on her toes, her hands gripping his shoulders and back, her strong fingers digging into his flesh through the layers of his uniform. </p><p>They broke for air and she pressed against him, her upper body swaying toward him, and Tom gathered her closer. He kissed her jaw, her chin, her throat. “God, B’Elanna,” he breathed. His voice shook. He pushed her hair from her cheeks and rested his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath. She loved him, She <em>loved</em> him! “Say it again,” he begged. </p><p>“That thruster is working just fine,” she teased. </p><p>He smiled and kissed her again, then pulled away, searching her face for signs that this was all some strange sort of joke. “Tell me you really do love me,” he said quietly. “Tell me you didn’t just say it to make me feel better about dying.” </p><p>She tilted her head, studying him, and her hands settled on his chest, above his heart. He wondered if she could feel it beating, its rhythm quick. She stilled, and for just a moment doubt washed over him.</p><p>“Yes, I love you.” </p><p>Her words were quiet, and he heard the sincerity in her tone, the slight hitch in her voice. He smiled his relief. Joy rushed through him making him giddy, clenching his gut and tightening his muscles. His smile turned into a grin, then a laugh, and he pulled her close again, burying his face in her neck, in her hair. He felt her strain in his arms, felt her breath on his temple, her lips on his ear. She nudged his head up, her mouth dragging over his cheekbone, the hollow of his cheek, his jaw. He turned his head and welcomed her kiss, and their noses bumped. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to devour her. </p><p>Her hands scrabbled at his collar, then she pulled his jacket fastener down and her palms smoothed over his chest with firm pressure. Her fingers curled over his shoulders and she pushed at his jacket but his arms were still around her and he didn’t want to let her go. He cupped her cheek and kissed again, instead. He wanted to touch her—<em>needed</em> to touch her—needed her hands on him, too. She was tugging his shirt from his slacks, and he pulled on her jacket zip, shoving the sides of her uniform aside as soon as it opened. His palm glided up her ribs, and she turned her body slightly so he held her breast in his hand. His fingers jerked spasmodically so they squeezed, and he heard a little growl escape her. He was instantly hard, needy. He felt light-headed, and he tore his mouth from hers so he could gulp a breath. If he couldn’t touch her soon, he’d die right there, in his quarters with the rest of <em>Voyager</em> just on the other side of the door. They were both breathing hard, and they laughed. </p><p>Tom stared at her, taking in the rosy glow in her cheeks and the heat in her eyes, and he felt something inside him give, something loosen and stretch toward her. All the uncertainty of the last few days, the longing he’d felt for months, quieted. She loved him. “I’m—”</p><p>“<em>Captain Janeway to Lieutenant Torres.</em>” </p><p>The Captain’s hail cut him off mid-sentence, and they both jerked. B’Elanna looked down, then pushed him away from her so she could tap her combadge. “Torres, here.” She sent him a little smile. </p><p>“<em>B’Elanna, we’ve received a distress call from a ship five light years from here. The crew is dead, but the Doctor wants to go and see what help he can offer.</em>”</p><p>“Wait,” B’Elanna frowned. “How do you know the crew is dead?”</p><p>Tom stepped away from her giving her more room. She tended to speak with her entire body, and he didn't want to get hit with a flying elbow. Plus, if he kept standing there, he might be tempted to kiss her again, and he didn’t want the sound of smooching to be broadcast to the entire bridge. He grinned at that. </p><p>“...I’m not sure what I could do to help a hologram that’s been constructed by an alien species, Captain.” B’Elanna raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. </p><p>“<em>The Doctor has convinced me that you’ll be along to keep an eye on his emitter.</em> There was a slight pause, then Janeway added, “<em>I thought you’d be interested in investigating alien technology, B’Elanna.</em>” </p><p>Tom was about to shake his head when his own combadge sounded over the captain’s response. “<em>The Doctor to Lieutenant Paris.</em>”</p><p>Tom sighed. Of course. It never rains but it pours: they went weeks with no excitement onboard, then suddenly everything happens at once. If the Doc was going with B’Elanna, he’d need someone to man sickbay while he was gone. Tom tapped his combadge, resigned to a long evening without B’Elanna to keep him company. Unless… unless the Doc wanted him to pilot the shuttle! He sent B’Elanna a grin and curled his fingers around her hip. Anchored himself to her. “Paris, here, Doc.”</p><p>“<em>I’m going on an away mission,</em>” the Doctor declared without preamble. “<em>I’ll need you to run sickbay while I’m gone.</em>”</p><p>“You… what?” Tom answered. Damn.</p><p>“<em>You heard me. I did say you were the most qualified to work with me. Not that that’s saying much,</em>” he muttered. “<em>I don’t expect any problems. </em>Voyager<em> will continue on to Arrithea as planned, and B’Elanna and I will rendezvous with you when we’ve given what aid we can to the alien ship.</em>”</p><p>“Of course, Captain,” B’Elanna‘s voice cut over Tom’s conversation with the Doctor. “I’ll meet him in the shuttlebay. Torres out.”</p><p>There was a pause, then the Doctor asked, “<em>Is Lieutenant Torres with you?</em>” </p><p>“Yeah,” Tom affirmed. “We’re working on a… project. We’ll be finished soon.” He rolled his eyes at her and she sent him a resigned look.</p><p>“<em>Well, how long is ‘soon’?”</em> the Doctor pressed. “<em>Tell her that I need her to accompany me on my mission.</em>”</p><p>“Ten minutes?” Tom took in B’Elanna’s sour expression, and a slow smile tugged at his mouth. “Make it fifteen…”</p><p>“<em>Fine. But impress upon her the urgency—</em>”</p><p>“If the crew is dead, it can’t be that urgent, Doc. Paris out,” Tom tapped his combadge to end the call. </p><p>“Fifteen minutes?” </p><p>“Yeah. It’ll take Culhane at least that long to prep a shuttle.” </p><p>She looked him up and down, from his eyes to his toes and back again. “That doesn’t give us much time.” </p><p>“I guess not,” Tom agreed. He leaned down and kissed her mouth lightly, cautious about starting something that they didn’t have time to finish. “If you want, we can do this again sometime, when you’re back. Or... you know,” he shrugged, the devil in his voice, “we could just pretend you didn’t say anything…”  </p><p>She bunched her hands in his shirt and hauled him against her, raising up on her toes and slamming her mouth onto his. Tom was momentarily startled, then he grabbed her shoulders just as urgently. He pushed her against the wall, leaning his weight into her, and kissed her back, but she resisted and he let her go instantly. “Sorry,” he started to say, “I thought…” </p><p>She grabbed at his uniform jacket and pulled it down his arms then shoved up his shirt, exposing his belly and chest. Tom grinned. He whipped it over his head and dropped it onto the floor. She had shimmied out of her own jacket, and her hands landed on his slacks, her fingers fumbling with the fastener and sliding the zip down. Tom’s breath caught as she pressed the palm of her hand against his briefs. “B’Elanna,” he hissed. His breath was coming faster again, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he was sure she could hear it, that the captain could hear it on the bridge. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, and I don’t want to wait another minute. And we only have about fourteen.” </p><p>Her mouth lifted in that crooked little smile, and Tom’s heart constricted; she could ask him to fuck her in the middle of the messhall and he’d agree! He bent to kiss her again, but she pushed him away. She popped the button on her slacks and shoved them and her panties down her legs. They puddled around her ankles, and she grabbed at Tom’s shoulder as she toed off her boots then balanced on one foot to pull her slacks off. They joined their jackets on the floor. </p><p>She wound an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, her other hand trailing down his face to hold his jaw. She rested her index finger over the spot where she’d bitten him on that planet six months ago, then tilted her head up, inviting him to kiss her. He did. His hands slid under her shirt, the pads of his fingers gliding over her smooth skin. She felt like velvet, soft and warm, and as her body arched toward his, he felt the muscles in her back and shoulders firm and shift. Her nails scraped his skin as she shoved his shorts down his thighs; he felt the heat of her palm as she cupped him. His breath stuttered in his lungs. “B’Elanna,” he murmured, “I—”</p><p>“Later,” she said. “We’ll talk later. I want you now, Tom.” </p><p>She raised a leg and wound it around his ass and pulled him closer so his cock was nestled against her belly. He remembered to breathe. This wasn’t how he’d imagined their first time. He’d invented an elaborate first date in his mind: a three course dinner with flowers, candles, a good wine. Soft jazz. They’d be here, in his quarters, and after they ate they might dance, or just sit on the couch and talk. Then she’d lean over and kiss him and they’d make their way to his bedroom. He chuckled. </p><p>“What?” she breathed. </p><p>Her breath tickled his ear as she scraped her teeth along his throat; he shivered. “I have a perfectly good bed.” </p><p>“Thirteen minutes?” she asked. “Next time…” </p><p>Tom laughed but it was cut off by her mouth on his, and he pulled her closer. He bent and slipped an arm under her and lifted her, hauling her upward so their bodies lined up more snuggly, so his cock pressed against her moist heat. He pinned her against the bulkhead with his body. She wound both legs around his hips, and her heels pressed into his ass as her legs tightened around him. She growled softly in his ear, and his cock jumped again. </p><p>He was kissing her again, devouring her, breathing her in. Her fingers wound in his hair and tugged, and her heels drove harder into his ass cheeks, pressing their bodies more tightly together. </p><p>“Now, Tom. Please.” </p><p>He had absolutely no desire to wait.</p><p>He steadied them, one hand on the bulkhead, the other under her hips as she guided him inside her. Her fingertips were cool and dry on his sensitive flesh, but she was all slick, silky heat once he entered her. He shivered, his breath leaving him, reason abandoning him, his head swimming with how good she felt, how right. He heard her own breath hitch, heard her gasp and felt her body shudder. Her hand slid down his back, her fingernails scraping over his skin, and he bucked against her. It felt so good to have her hands on him; to know that she needed him as much as he needed her. He wanted to pound into her, to slam his cock into her heat, to brand her as his! And he wanted to go slow: to trace her body’s contours with his fingertips, memorizing every curve and dip, he wanted to taste her skin and share her breath, to scrape his teeth over her forehead ridges, plunder her mouth and feel her tongue tangle with his. </p><p>She looked into his eyes, and he rested his forehead against hers and tried to slow himself down; tried to focus on the way her body felt against his: her arms wound tightly around his shoulders, her legs securing him to her. She was tense and still, her body strung taut, waiting. Her breath puffed against his lips, and he kissed her then, falling into her, melding with her as he started to move. She moaned, and Tom almost lost it then. </p><p>He shifted, trying to maintain his balance, feeling like he’d never be grounded again. She bucked her hips. “Tom, please.” He couldn’t hold back anymore. He thrust into her and she gasped. He pulled away and thrust deeper, and she moaned from deep in her throat, “Yes…” Her hands tightened on him, her fingernails gouging his flesh. She came alive in his arms, her body arching into his his, her kisses landing on his cheek, his chin, his throat. His aim wasn’t much better. He almost laughed at the joy of it! </p><p>They moved together, their bodies straining in rhythm, breath rasping in concert. She was all heat and light, strength and softness in his arms, and he wanted to crush her to him; he wanted to swallow her whole. The fabric of her shirt was chafing him, and he wanted to feel her skin on his. He let go of the wall to shove her shirt roughly up under her chin, his body weight falling against her. His arm landed on the wall, and he curved his hand over her head, feeling the cool silkiness of her hair On his fingers. Her body was pressed against his, and her thin bra didn’t hide the hardness of her nipples and the softness of her breasts against his chest as they moved together. </p><p>She was whining, gasping little mewls of pleasure, and he was so close. He set his teeth and closed his eyes and hung on. Then her body jerked and shuddered, her legs twitched and pulled him closer, her fingers spasming on his back, and he was right behind her. He came in a rush of bright light as electricity sparked along his skin. His muscles locked and his lungs stopped working and he held his breath until he ran out of air, pleasure rocketing to his toes and fingertips, making his scalp tingle. He dragged in a stuttering breath and opened his eyes. She was panting too, her arms and legs still gripping him tightly. Her eyes were still closed, and her hips were rocking softly against his. </p><p>“I think,” Tom puffed a breath, “that we might still have ten minutes left.” </p><p>She laughed. Her nose crinkled up and her lips curved upward and she looked at him, her eyes soft and dark. He kissed her again and hugged her tighter even though his arm muscles were screaming in protest. He pulled away from her, and she lowered her legs to the floor. He wasn’t sure what to do: a hug might be awkward, but he didn’t want to just step away and pull up his pants. She solved his dilemma by sliding her body against him and kissing him again. She broke the kiss too quickly and pushed on his chest until he backed up a few steps, giving her room to maneuver. </p><p>“I should talk to Joe before I head to the shuttlebay,” she said. </p><p>She reached for her uniform slacks, and Tom wondered if they had time for a quick sonic shower, but she’d already pulled on her underwear. She looked amazing in underwear. </p><p>“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Tom asked. </p><p>She shrugged. “I don’t know. Six hours? Twelve? It’ll only take a few hours to get there, but…” She lifted a hand and shrugged again then pulled her shirt over her head and smoothed it down her ribs. </p><p>Tom pulled up his pants and tucked himself back into his shorts. She was leaving. Wham, bam, thanks man. She would be out his door in another minute. Then what? “Did…” he began, “did you want to do something later, when you’re back?” He was having trouble breathing again, and his pulse had sped up. And from the heat he felt in his ears, he was pretty sure they’d turned red. </p><p>“Maybe,” she hedged. “What did you have in mind?” </p><p>Sex. Tom had sex in mind. Lots and lots of sex: in a bed, against the wall, on the furniture. In a Jeffries tube, the middle of engineering… “We could… talk, or do something on the holodeck. Maybe dinner?” That first date he’d planned might come true after all. </p><p>She pulled the fastener on her uniform jacket and turned toward him, and he realized that she was fully dressed and he was still half naked with his dick <em>almost</em> hanging out in the breeze. </p><p>“Why don’t you stop by my quarters later and we’ll discuss it,” she suggested. </p><p>Tom smiled as relief washed through him. “I’d like that.” </p><p>“Me, too.” She kissed him again, slow and deep and sweet, then turned to go. “Don’t wear yourself out in sickbay,” she said, then kissed him one more time before she headed for the door. </p><p>Sickbay. Oh yeah. He should use that shower but the Doc was expecting him, and he didn’t want to wash the scent of her from his skin. He wanted to carry it with him; to hang onto it. He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, then tucked it into his pants. Twelve hours, maybe six, and he could kiss her again. Hold her again. Sleep was overrated. </p><p>Tom grinned. The Doctor’s voice broke into his musings. “<em>The Doctor to Lieutenant Paris. Where are you? I’m waiting to give you instructions.</em>”</p><p>Tom tapped his combadge. “I’m on my way, Doc. Paris out.”</p><p>He finger-combed his hair and headed out the door. The sooner the Doctor left, the sooner B’Elanna would be back in his arms.</p><p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. FILL THE GAP - DROP</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Note: This… went off for a ramble, sparked by a question posed by Llawengwaed. You’ll likely see where. But Tom does have time to kill. </p><p>This is for Tortitudette, who may enjoy a good ramble every once in a while.</p><p>*****<br/>
Tom was smiling. He didn’t realize that his hands had stilled as he paused in his task of inventorying the sickbay’s store of pain blocker medication, or that his facial muscles had gone slack and his eyes had glazed over with a soft, dreamy expression. It didn’t matter; there was no one else in sickbay to observe his goofy grin, anyway. </p><p>He was thinking about B’Elanna, of course, Remembering how it had felt to have her in his arms, the sweet pressure of her lips on his. The softness of her skin, the heat of her. The scent of her hair was still in his nose… And he’d been thinking that after the way they’d made love so impulsively, so desperately, just a few hours ago, that there was absolutely no way she could take any of it back. She couldn’t deny it later. He wouldn't let her. Not that he thought she <em>would</em>. He may have been a willing participant but the sex—practically against his door!—had been her idea, after all. And he couldn’t help wondering if that’s what it would have been like on Sikari if Vorik hadn’t interrupted them in that clearing: hard and fast and mind-blowingly good, though… not exactly satisfying. He was absolutely <em>not</em> satisfied; he wanted more. Much more. He hadn’t been able to tell her that he loved her, too. He’d tried, but she’d interrupted him, stopping with her lips. But he did love her; he was in love with her and he had been for a long time. He was completely, perfectly, incandescently in love with B’Elanna Torres! And the fact that Vorik had interrupted them back then was probably one of the reasons why he <em>would</em> get more private time with her, whenever she returned from that mission with the Doctor. </p><p>He sighed forlornly and entered four vials of triptacederine into the inventory record, then took a swig of Neelix’ better-than-coffee. If things didn’t liven up around here, he thought, he might have to move on to cordafin to stay awake. Not that he made a habit of taking stimulants. He slept well, and if he had to be on duty for longer than twelve hours it was usually because of some sort of crisis; having the ship in red alert was enough to keep him wide awake. </p><p>Seven had somehow managed to slice open her hand while she was working on the new Astrometrics Lab earlier, and Harry had brought her in to get it looked at. Luckily, it was a clean, uncomplicated cut that had only taken a few minutes to repair. He’d teased Seven about being ‘mortal’ now that most of her Borg modifications were gone, and Harry had chided him for not showing Seven enough compassion. Harry had it in his head that Seven was shy and vulnerable. Tom had almost laughed in his face. If she was, she was doing a good job of hiding it. </p><p>Harry had left in a bit of a huff after Tom had called him out on what looked to him like a burgeoning crush on their resident Borg, and warned him that the woman Harry saw when he looked at her was very likely not who Seven really was. It was funny: B’Elanna couldn’t stand to be in a room with her for more than five minutes, and Harry had already convinced himself that he was in love with her.</p><p>Tom entered seven, ha, vials of hydrocortilene in the inventory on a PADD. Harry and Seven’s visit aside, he’d been alone in sickbay for the last three hours doing busywork, anything to keep his hands and mind occupied and make the time pass. The Doctor had been a little thin on instructions before he’d left,  and Tom had found himself at loose ends. He hated being bored—it had been so slow that he’d been tempted to hang a *COME IN, WE’RE OPEN* sign outside the door—so he’d taken it upon himself to inventory the supply of medications they had on hand. When he was done with that, he just might check the medkits to make sure they were all fully stocked. Of course, that would take him out of sickbay and lead him all over the ship. Then again, the Doc hadn’t said he had to be stuck in sickbay the whole time he was gone. He’d been a little thin on instructions, actually.</p><p>The sickbay doors <em>swished</em> open and Tom glanced up. Chell moaned theatrically as he made his way to a biobed, and Tom came out of the medlab to greet him. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” he teased. He smiled, and Chell blinked in response. “What brings you to sickbay?” </p><p>“I don’t feel good,” Chell whined. “Where’s the Doctor?” He looked around, apparently hoping the Doc would pop up out of hiding. </p><p>“He’s on an away mission,” Tom told him. “My name is Tom, and I’m your nurse for the evening. Hop up.” Tom patted the biobed.</p><p>“You?” Chell frowned and clambered up, then stretched out on the medbed. “I knew it was a bad idea to let him have that emitter,” he said. “At least before, he was confined to the holodeck and here. He couldn’t go running off just when we needed him.” He moaned again. </p><p>Tom’s mouth puckered and he glanced around the empty sickbay. “I’m sure I can take care of whatever it is that’s bothering you. It’s not like he’s usually overrun with patients,” he noted. “It’ll be good for him to get out every once in a while.” Though, if he could have waited until tomorrow for his first away mission Tom would have been happier. “What seems to be the problem, Crewman?” </p><p>“It’s my stomach. Something isn’t sitting right.” </p><p>Tom’s eyebrow rose. “Really?” He ran the wand of the medical tricorder over Chell’s head, then down his chest to his belly, and frowned. He tapped a few buttons, but the readings didn’t change. “Any vomiting? Sharp pains?” </p><p>Chell shook his head. “Just a burning. And a kind of a… rolling sensation. I feel hot, then cold.” He moaned again. “I’ve never felt like this before. Am I dying?” </p><p>Tom closed the tricorder and gave Chell a pat on the shoulder. “Not today. It appears that you’re suffering from functional dyspepsia.” Chell’s eyes rounded and his mouth dropped open. “It means you have a tummy ache. What have you been eating?” </p><p>“Neelix made pancakes with pokkelberry syrup for my breakfast.” </p><p>“You’re on gamma shift?”</p><p>Chell nodded. The Bolian digestive system was renowned for being able to handle almost anything. Their stomach acid was so, well, acidic that Chell could probably digest the medical tricorder. Pancakes and pokkelberries had done him in. It reminded him of the time B’Elanna had become ill after eating a local salad during shore leave. Tom walked back to the medlab and loaded a hypospray with an antiemetic, then crossed back to Chell’s biobed. He injected it into his neck. “This should help with the nausea.” </p><p>Chell quieted mid-moan. </p><p>“How are you feeling now?” </p><p>He sat up with a smile. “Much better.” </p><p>“Good. I think you can return to duty.” Chell nodded and hopped down then headed toward the door, throwing a ‘thank you, Lieutenant’ over his shoulder. “Next time, go easy on the syrup,” Tom called after him. </p><p>He had already begun to update Chell’s chart, and he looked at the time: not even twenty-three hundred. It was going to be a very long night. </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em>me’neya hunched beside the fire and extended her hands toward the flames to warm them. Despite the chill and the glow of the fire, she heard the rustling of nocturnal creatures in the forest around her: the screech of a brush devil in the darkness beyond the fire’s light and winged beasts as they glided overhead. Her stomachs were pinched with hunger, and she could smell the scent of meat roasting in the main camp, but she had no desire to rejoin her comrades. She could hear their boisterous calls and laughter, and the sound of off-key singing was carried on the wind along with the scent of the food.</em>
</p><p><em>If her House had not been aligned with</em> his<em> she would not be here on this cold night with the scent of rain in the air. They would go to battle in the morning; surely rest or combat practice would serve them better than a night of drunken revelry. Why her grandmother believed that they needed the House of Kor to win the coming fight, she couldn’t reason. She and her House sisters were trained in the use of their weapons, and they were strong and fearless. </em></p><p><em>Her thoughts turned to </em>him<em> again, as they had every few minutes for the last hour, since she’d walked from the camp and found a little clearing for her fire halfway up the escarpment. Proud. Arrogant. Without a thought in his head that wasn’t keyed to the coming battle. As if she had summoned him, he appeared on the other side of the fire! me’neya stood quickly and braced her feet in the loamy soil. </em></p><p>
  <em>She drew back her shoulders and raised her chin as she called out, “Go away!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He did not listen to her command. Instead, he came closer until he was less than an arm’s length away from her fire. Rorg turned his fierce eye upon her, and me’neya felt her heart begin to quicken, even as her hand went to her dagger. She had intended to plunge it into his throat, but something about him made her hesitate. Perhaps it was the way he simply stood across from her watching her in silence, the glow from the firepit between them painting his face in beastly shadows, or it may have been the way the firelight glinted off his leather tunic. He was a fine specimen: straight and strong with the bravery of a warrior but not the foolish bravado of the young targs in the camp below them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I must speak with you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re as noisy as a pack of ghISnar cats!” she confronted him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And your fire broadcasts your position to our enemy.” He stepped closer to the fire, then moved around it to confront her. His gaze roved over her features, then dipped to appreciate her fine figure. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She frowned at him. “What do you want?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“To speak with you about le’ngan and my brother.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You would seek to deny what they know in their hearts?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“When two Klingon hearts beat together, Kahless himself would not deny it,” he said. He stepped closer still and stared down at her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She was tall and strong and would not bow before him! “And yet you oppose their match,” she stated. She was drawn by his eyes, or perhaps by the expression in them when he looked at her. They were a blue so pale as to be almost gray, a colour that was rare among her people, and when he looked at her it was as if he could see inside of her, inside her heart to her deepest longings. His fingers brushed her arm and she allowed the trespass. She wondered why she didn’t strike him down for it!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“le’ngan is…” he paused in his speech as he watched her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She is what?” me’neya demanded. “Which petaQ has fed you lies about my sister’s honour? Tell me and I will gut him like the chuSwI’ he is—”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No one has fed me lies, but there has been talk in the camp.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Talk that suggests what?” She demanded. “She is a brave warrior, and unflinching in the face of the enemy! You would disagree?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would never say such!” His body stiffened and his jaw firmed. “But it has been suggested that she seeks to form an alliance with my House, and my brother is young—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You believe that le’ngan is not noble enough for your great House? She would bring honour to your House!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She had drawn her dagger and swung it toward his face, but he caught her arm in mid-arc and she felt the pressure of his strong fingers on her wrist. They stood together, their chests heaving in sudden anger, and his scent enveloped her. His eyes roved her face yet again, and she heard a low growl come from his throat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would not question her honour,” he stated, ‘or yours.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He let go of her wrist and stepped back, leaving a small space between them. Instead of feeling victorious that he had withdrawn, she felt suddenly more unsteady then she had when he was too close to her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Their feelings are not what they believe them to be. To find your mate so suddenly and at such a young age, it cannot be real. It is the thrill of tomorrow’s fight stirring their blood, that is all.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t believe that a warrior knows their mate when she sees him? Whether their acquaintance has been long or sudden?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was quiet for a moment as he stilled and looked into her eyes. “I believe a young warrior can mistake lust for bonding,” he said quietly. “That in the heat of battle desires are magnified as death raps at the door.”</em>
</p><p><em>“A warrior is not afraid of death,” she said, her voice as soft as his. “And fighting beside one’s mate, fighting </em>for<em> one’s mate makes a warrior strong, not weak.”</em></p><p>
  <em>His jaw firmed as he heard her words, and he reached out and touched her hair. A slim braid between his fingers. “You would slay all of our enemies if your mate stood beside you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would. Or I would go to Sto-vo-kor with my mate at my si—</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>“<em>Bridge to sickbay. Prepare for emergency patient transport.</em>”</p><p>Tom’s head snapped up and he dropped his PADD on the Doctor’s desk. He stood and managed to make it out of the Doc’s office in time to see two people materialize on the deck. Baxter, supported by Ayala, was beamed into the middle of the room, his face contorted in pain as he limped toward a biobed. </p><p>“What happened?” Tom asked. He scooped up a tricorder and, with a nod to Ayala, helped to lift Baxter and ease him onto the bed. </p><p>“My leg,” Baxter bit out. </p><p>Tom scanned him, noting his high levels of myoglobin, potassium, and lactic acid. “Were you in the gym?” </p><p>“We were playing velocity in the holodeck,” Ayala supplied. </p><p>Tom scanned Baxter’s leg and frowned. “Full-contact velocity? With the safeties off? You have a spiral fracture of your femur.” His eyebrow rose in a question. Baxter hissed a breath as Tom gently moved his leg so it lay straighter on the biobed. “Sorry,” he said, “but I have to make sure it’s aligned properly before I repair it.”</p><p>“I dove to make a shot,” Baxter explained through his teeth. “I guess I twisted around. But I had all my weight on one foot, on the deck.” </p><p>“Hence the spiral.” Tom nodded. “Well, you’ve done a number on your leg. Aside from the broken bone, the surrounding tissue is starting to swell and you have muscle and tendon damage.” He looked up and smiled at him, “But it’s nothing I can’t fix. Mike, can you hand me the osteo regenerator?” Ayala nodded and moved toward the storage compartments in the wall as Tom pulled the medcart toward him and loaded the hypospray with an analgesic. “This should help with the pain and help you relax.” </p><p>Tom pressed the hypospray to Baxter’s neck, and he visibly relaxed a few seconds later. “So, are you the new Kes?” he asked. </p><p>“Apparently,” Tom confirmed. “But I refuse to wear leggings and those cute little skirts.” Tom passed the regenerator over Baxter’s leg in a slow sweep, gradually bringing down the swelling around his tibia. Ayala handed him the bone knitter, and Tom nodded his thanks. </p><p>“I thought he’d pick Ensign Donofrio,” Mike said. </p><p>Tom shrugged in reply. “I think he’s got beta shift.” He glanced up at Baxter. “Here we go.” </p><p>“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Walter asked. “I mean, no offense, but if you make a mistake setting my leg, won’t the Doctor have to break it again to repair it?” </p><p>“Believe it or not, this isn’t the first broken leg I’ve fixed.” Tom set the bone knitter to its weakest power setting and began a slow sweep over the fracture. “When I was in the Academy, during one of our survival strategies tactical simulations, my classmates and I were ousted from our beds at oh two hundred, hustled into a shuttle, and dropped on a mountainside. We had the clothes on our backs and a medkit. And I think dad only allowed us to have that because it was regulation.” </p><p>“Your dad?” Baxter asked. </p><p>Tom nodded. “Yeah. I was unlucky to get my own father as my instructor that year.” </p><p>“So,” Baxter asked, “did you get an A+?”</p><p>“Not quite.” Tom adjusted the knitter to a stronger setting. “As we were climbing down the mountain, one of our group slipped. Compound fracture of the femur. We used branches from some saplings as splints and I sacrificed the sleeves of my favourite shirt to secure his leg to them.” His friend and rival, Neal Hawk, had fainted from the pain. “I couldn’t give him too much pain suppressant because we needed him conscious in order to get him off the mountain.”</p><p>“You didn’t have an emergency communicator?” Ayala asked. </p><p>“Nope,” Tom continued. “Just the medkit. I did the best I could to realign the bone and healed the wound, though he did need surgery when we got back to the basecamp.” He picked up the tricorder and scanned the break to see how well it had knit. It looked to be properly aligned, so he adjusted the power to full and started another pass on Baxter’s leg. “We had to construct a litter to carry him down.”</p><p>“But he was okay afterwards?” </p><p>“He danced at our graduation party,” Tom said. </p><p>“Come on, you must have gotten a good grade; your team got him down the mountain,” Baxter said.</p><p>Tom shook his head and turned his back to both of them as he replaced the bone knitter and the regenerator on the equipment tray. “Ah, well. As team leader I was supposed to make sure no one was injured in the first place.” He turned back with a smile. “All done, Lieutenant. As your health care professional, I’m recommending you take it easy for the rest of the night. No more velocity, parrises squares, or targ wrestling for the next few days. You’ll be fit for duty in the morning but if you have any more pain or any problems, comm me.”</p><p>“Thanks, Tom.” Baxter sat up and Tom helped him to ease down off of the biobed. He tried a couple of tentative steps, easing his full weight onto his leg. </p><p>“How does it feel?” Tom asked.</p><p> “Good as new,” Baxter nodded. </p><p>“Well, part of that is the analgeyzic.” </p><p>“Right.” Baxter glanced around the empty sickbay. “Looks like you’re having a slow night.” </p><p>“I don’t mind it slow.”  </p><p>“Want to come to the mess with us for a cup of coffee?” Ayala offered.</p><p>“Thanks but I have some research to get back to,” Tom replied. </p><p>“Okay,” Baxter shrugged. “Thanks again.” </p><p>Tom nodded, and watched as Ayala walked out with him, then tidied up the rest of the equipment he’d used and set the biobed to sterilize. He walked back into the Doctor’s office, poured himself another cup of coffee from the thermos, and picked up his PADD. He wasn’t lying about the research...</p><p>**</p><p>“Come on, Harry,” Tom whined, “sleep is for the weak.” </p><p>“<em>The weak? What are you talking about?</em>”</p><p>“Sleeping too much is bad for your brain; it actually decreases your reaction time and recall. It’s been proven.” </p><p>“<em>By whom?</em></p><p>“People who study these things. I’m begging you, just drop by for an hour. We can play cards or something.” </p><p>“<em>Cards? Tom, I’m on alpha shift tomorrow… today, and I only got to sleep… twenty minutes ago!</em>” Now Harry was whining. </p><p>“Harry, it’s dead here and I’m bored out of my mind.”</p><p>“<em>Maybe you should think about that the next time you volunteer for sickbay duty. Goodnight, Tom.</em>” </p><p>He ended the conversation abruptly, and Tom sighed. It was possible that Harry was still mad at him over what he’d said about Seven. He could see if she was regenerating; she could confirm to Harry that she wasn’t upset by it. He was contemplating another thermos of coffee when the sickbay doors opened, and Canamar and O’Brien walked in. Canamar was cradling her left arm close to her chest, and O’Brien was doing his best not to hover over her. </p><p>“What seems to be the trouble?” Tom asked. Canamar was wearing her ‘fleet issue bathrobe, belted loosely enough for Tom to wonder if she had anything else on underneath it. Judging by her bare feet, no. </p><p>“I think I broke it,” she said. </p><p>“Well, let me take a look.” Tom ran the wand of the tricorder over her wrist and lower arm. He <em>hmmm</em>ed. “You have a classic scaphoid fracture, crewman. You’re my second broken bone tonight.” He glanced up at her and smiled, then sobered as he asked, “How did it happen?”  </p><p>“I fell,” she answered. </p><p>“I see.” Tom smiled again. “That’s generally how this particular type of fracture happens.” He glanced at O’Brien, taking in his equally bare feet, disheveled hair, and wrinkled tee shirt with… yes… Snoopy sitting on the roof of his red doghouse dressed as the World War One Flying Ace on the front. He was only slightly jealous. Tom wondered if he should offer to give O’Brien lessons in the helm programme in the holodeck. If he was going to be taking regular shifts in sickbay, he’d need another pilot.</p><p>“So,” Tom prodded, “what were you doing that caused you to fall?” </p><p>Canamar shot a warning glance at her companion; he looked a little pink around the ears. “Exercising,” she said. </p><p>Tom raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smirk. “I see,” he repeated. He reached for the bone knitter; it wasn’t the only thing getting a workout tonight, apparently. </p><p>She jerked the neckline of her robe together. “What do you mean by that, Lieutenant?” she snapped. </p><p>“Val…” O’Brien put a hand on her uninjured shoulder.</p><p>Ahhh, Tom thought, the Maquis temper wasn’t limited to half-Klingons and Chakotay. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.” He laid on one more smile for good measure. “Well, from the break, it doesn’t look like you fell more than half a meter. That’s good.” Really, he shouldn’t tease them but what the Hell, he was bored and they’d been careless. </p><p>His comment was greeted with silence. </p><p>He glanced up from her wrist and said with all seriousness, “Everything you tell me in sickbay about your health is confidential. I have to make a note in your file for the Doctor, but we’ll keep it in strictest confidence.” </p><p>“Okay.” </p><p>She appeared only slightly mollified. </p><p>Tom made one last pass with the regenerator then thumbed it off. “How’s that feel?” he asked. </p><p>She cautiously bent her wrist then turned it in a slow circle. “Better,” she said. </p><p>“Next time, you might want to use the gym with a padded mat,” he said, “it works better than a mattress. Bigger.” He steadfastly did not look at them as they headed for the door, but it was more so he could finally let go of his grin than to spare them further embarrassment. </p><p>Two broken bones in one night, he thought, and they weren’t even at Arrithea yet. He’d been scheduled to help Neelix gather supplies though he didn’t think anyone would have to climb any fruit trees this time. It was more of a trading mission. Assisting Neelix had become his de facto assignment whenever <em>Voyager</em> was in orbit for resupply since he wasn’t really needed at the helm, but his stint in sickbay had pulled him from shopping duty. It was just as well; he wanted to be onboard when B’Elanna returned. He wanted to be off duty when she returned. Hopefully, with enough energy to stay up for hours. </p><p>Broken bones… he smiled then cringed a little wondering if he was up for it. They’d been eager in his quarters, rushed but still somewhat tame. Pinned against the bulkhead, she couldn’t exactly get energetic, and since he was supporting her weight, neither could he. Maybe he should take his own advice, though instead of the gym they should use the holodeck next time. He felt a little tremor of excitement just thinking about it: B’Elanna’s Klingon side, the one he’d barely glimpsed on Sakari six months ago. He could take it, he decided. In fact, he was eager for it. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he wanted to see more of her Klingon side. Anything she could dish out. <em>Everything</em> she could dish out. </p><p>He couldn’t wait for her to get back.</p><p>**</p><p><em>She ducked under her opponent's swing, and rammed her own bat’leth upward, connecting with his chin and forcing him backwards. </em> </p><p>“That’s gotta hurt,” Tom murmured.  </p><p>
  <em>Blood sprayed in a wide arc spattering me’neya’s face and hands but she ignored it and used her advantage to drive the brute further backwards. His booted feet stumbled on the rocky ground, and he fell. She delivered the killing blow swiftly. </em>
</p><p>“Yes!” Tom whispered fiercely. </p><p><em>She spun on one foot to survey the battlefield. She spotted le’ngan standing on a rise, her mate at her back. Despite Rorg’s attempts to halt their union, they had joined in a private ceremony, only informing him and me’neya when it was done, as the dawn cut the sky with ribbons of pink light. It was a good match, one that would bring honour to both their Houses.</em> </p><p>
  <em>A figure caught her eye and she turned her head: below her, Rorg was battling three opponents. As his arm extended as he swung his bat’leth toward one, his body was already turning so he could jab at another with his d’k tahg. His fist seemed to sink into the smaller man’s belly, but before Rorg could straighten and address his third attacker, the taHqeq sliced him with a strong chop of his bat’leth. </em>
</p><p>“Shit,” Tom muttered.</p><p>
  <em>me’neya roared and charged up the hill, knocking aside anyone who stood in her way. She must reach him! Some force was propelling her forward, filling her with the strength of a klongat as she ran toward him. Her mind rejected what her heart was calling out: that she must stand beside this proud, high-born warrior, son of such a noble House. That she must defend his life like her own! That he was her m--</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>“<em>Bridge to sickbay. Prepare for emergency transport.</em></p><p>Rollin’s voice broke into his concentration and Tom jumped with a gasp. He blew a breath and almost laughed. “If it’s Baxter again,” he muttered. He was just getting to the good part... </p><p>Two people began to materialize, one dressed in sciences blue, the other in gold, and Tom’s jaw hardened. He grabbed a medical tricorder from the tray, but before they’d fully transported he recognized the woman on the sickbay floor, the Doctor squatting at her side: B’Elanna. </p><p>He froze. The air left his lungs and he was certain that his stomach dropped to his feet. “No.” it came out on a breath. </p><p>The Doctor was already talking. “One hundred milligrams of metrazene, Lieutenant, and toss me a neuro-cordical monitor.” </p><p>Tom stood, simply staring at them: the woman he loved who—amazingly, miraculously—loved him back, was still and pale as death lying on the floor, and the ship’s Doctor was glaring at him. He felt numb, his arms leaden. </p><p>He lifted B’Elanna into his arms as if she weighed nothing and rushed her to the diagnostic bed. He hit the control for the arch. It rose smoothly. “Now, Tom!” the Doctor snapped at him. </p><p>Tom jerked, jolted out of his daze by the Doc’s sharp tone. He fumbled the medical tricorder and it landed on the floor at his feet. The Doctor didn’t need it anyway; he was already busy scanning B’Elanna with his own. Tom grabbed a hypospray and a vial of golden liquid, his hands shaking as he checked the vial’s label and shoved it into the body of the hypospray, then handed it to the Doctor. As he injected it into B’Elanna, Tom attached the monitor to her neck. She had a gash on her forehead, and dried, congealed blood trailed down her temple and cheek.</p><p>His eyes automatically went to the computerized display on the arm of the arch, and he read the information there: pulse, respiration, blood pressure, synaptic patterns. The numbers scrolled before his eyes, and his brain kicked in. Something was wrong with her heart. </p><p>“What happened?” he asked. He was surprised that his voice sounded even. Calm. </p><p>“The isomorph who we went to help attacked her. He reached through her chest wall and perforated the fourth ventricle of her heart. Micro-suture.” </p><p>“What?” Tom simply gaped at him.</p><p>“Micro-suture, now. If you’re unable to assist me, I’ll call for someone who can.” </p><p>“No. I’m sorry.” Tom shook off his shock and pulled the instrument tray closer. The Doctor had opened B’Elanna’s uniform jacket, and shoved the fabric to either side of her ribs, exposing her torso. He extended his open palm for the instrument. Tom handed it to him.</p><p>“How much of the damage were you able to repair?” His hands hovered over the cardiostimulator, ready, just in case.</p><p>“Not enough. I was able to stabilize her while we were still on the alien vessel and repair her pericardium, but I couldn’t stop her internal bleeding. She lost consciousness while she was piloting us back to <em>Voyager</em>.” He glanced up at Tom. “I had to take the helm and fly us back. I think it would be a good idea for you to give me a few lessons for the future, just in case. I’m not programmed to be a hot-shot pilot.”</p><p>A vision of O’Brien’s Snoopy tee shirt floated through Tom’s mind, and he envisioned the Doctor with a helmet and goggles, a long white scarf tied around his neck. A warning alarm started beeping, jolting him out of the memory, and Tom’s fingers jerked reflexively on the stimulator. </p><p>“One cc of cordrazine,” the Doctor ordered. </p><p>Tom already had the hypo loaded. He dialed the correct amount then handed it to the Doctor. He noted with irritation that the Doc verified the vial and dosage before he injected B’Elanna. Seconds counted! But… if he had accidentally dialed it to ten cc’s, instead of one… </p><p>Tom glanced at B’Elanna’s face. She was pale, her skin waxy, and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. “Doc,” he said. </p><p>“A few moments, please.” He waved the cellular regenerator over her chest slowly, “I’m repairing the ventricle. It’s tricky work. She’s lucky that she’s half Klingon; if she were fully human, with a four-chambered heart instead of eight, she would be dead now.”</p><p>Tom had been bored out of his skull for most of his shift in sickbay. It had been a slow night, a good thing, really, compared to the alternative. He’d coasted through the evening, assured that he had the skills and competency to handle whatever came up, barring an attack by a hostile alien race. He’d been beginning to think that his real skills, as a <em>flying ace</em> were being wasted. He realized now that he knew absolutely nothing about medicine, or humanoid bodies, or the art of repairing them. If the Doc had somehow been deactivated when B’Elanna was beamed to <em>Voyager</em>, and he had to treat her injuries himself, she’d probably be dead already. A shiver climbed up his spine. He took her hand in his gently. If the Doc noticed, he refrained from mentioning it. </p><p>“There, that’s better,” the Doctor said. “You can put away the stimulator, Lieutenant, we won’t need it.” </p><p>Tom glanced at the readout and noted with relief that her vital signs were back within normal range. </p><p>“I’m done here,” the Doctor said. He looked at Tom for a moment, assessing him, then said, “Her head wound is superficial. No sign of a concussion. Why don’t you stitch it and clean it up.” </p><p>Tom did so, gladly. He gently tilted her head to the side, then moved the dermal regenerator in a smooth arc along the laceration. When it had closed, he changed to a back-and-forth motion to repair the damaged tissue underneath her skin. Her bruises faded, and she had more colour in her face already, proof that the Doctor had repaired her heart. Tom had to fight a desire to lean down and kiss her. </p><p>He deposited the regenerator on the instrument tray, then crossed to the sink and wet a cloth which he used to wipe the dried blood from her face. She woke with a gasp, and blinked up at him. “Hey,” he said. “You’re okay. You’re back on <em>Voyager</em>.” </p><p>She made a breathy sound that was half moan and half sigh, and tried to sit up. Tom lowered the diagnostic arch and helped her. </p><p>“I don’t remember getting back,” she said. </p><p>“That’s because you lost consciousness in the shuttle on our way home,” the Doctor answered. “But I valiantly managed to both treat you and steer us safely home.” </p><p>“The shuttle has an autopilot,” she scoffed. Tom was still standing close to her, leaning toward her. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she added, “But I’m glad you were able to get us back.” </p><p>“All part of a regular day for a Starfleet EMH in the Delta Quadrant. You’re fine, B’Elanna. I’ve stopped the internal bleeding, and repaired the tissue damage. Your pericardium is clean as a whistle.” He smiled at her, then turned and assessed the sickbay. He gestured to the instrument cart. “Which is more than I can say for my sickbay.”</p><p>Tom straightened slightly, and frowned. He felt a bit slighted by that. Aside from the cluttered tray, sickbay was spotless. “I’m sorry about the mess,” he snipped, “it was a hectic day. I treated two broken bones, an upset stomach, and a lacerated hand.”</p><p>B’Elanna turned toward him, her voice lowered to that sexy drawl that always made his gut feel warm. “Does this mean you’re too tired to meet later, in my quarters?” </p><p>Tom’s breath caught, and he inclined his head closer. He lowered his volume as he replied, “Are you sure your heart can take it?” She smiled at him, her expression soft, and Tom read something in her eyes that made him feel hopeful and excited. That made him want to grab her again and kiss the crap out of her, their audience be damned! </p><p>The Doctor turned back to them, the wand of his tricorder raised. He passed it through the air, waving it in their direction. “I’m detecting elevated hormonal levels. If you two don’t take it easy, I’ll have to declare a medical emergency.” </p><p>B’Elanna snorted. </p><p>“You ready to get out of here?” Tom asked her.</p><p>“Definitely.” </p><p>“I think you need a medical escort to your quarters. Tom make sure you get her there safely.” He smiled at her.</p><p>“Not so fast, Mister Paris. You are going to help me sterilise every square millimetre of this sickbay. No doubt you’ve left your oily residue on every hypospray, your sloughed secretions on every console.” </p><p>Tom’s face scrunched in confusion and he felt B’Elanna tense beside him. He straightened, but the Doctor lowered the tricorder and continued with a smile. </p><p>“Just kidding. In fact, I’ve had a change of heart about my fastidiousness. A little clutter never hurt anyone.” He dropped the tricorder back onto the instrument tray. “Sickbay should have a more <em>organic</em> touch, don’t you think? To help our patients feel more at home.”</p><p>“Organic?” Tom frowned in puzzlement. “What’s gotten into him?” he asked.</p><p>B’Elanna’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “It’s a long story.” </p><p>“I’d love to hear it.” He leaned close to her again. “If that invitation is still open.” </p><p>“You can go now, B’Elanna, but I want you to go straight to your quarters and rest. You have the rest of the day off, to recover. And I do have one more job for you, Lieutenant,” the Doctor said, his gaze shifting to Tom. </p><p>His expression was unreadable, and Tom fought a wash of disappointment. Apparently he was going to be stuck in sickbay for a little longer after all. </p><p>“I’d like you to escort Lieutenant Torres to her quarters. No detours to engineering,” he addressed B’Elanna, “and if you’re hungry I’m issuing you some extra replicator rations. Enough for at least <em>one</em> nice meal.” </p><p>He smiled at them both then addressed Tom. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at oh six hundred for your first official day as my new nurse, as you put it. Enjoy your evening. Be sure you get plenty of rest.”</p><p>It wasn’t even oh eight hundred. Gamma shift was still on duty. Tom offered B’Elanna a hand, and she slid hers into it, then hopped down from the biobed. They moved out into the corridor and headed for the ‘lift. He was tense, adrenaline still coursing through his system. They stepped into the empty turbolift and called for deck nine, and he turned and pulled her into a hug. He didn’t even wait for the doors to close. </p><p>“When you beamed into sickbay, I—”</p><p>B’Elanna pulled back and put her fingers to his mouth, cutting off his words. “Wait,” she said. “When that hologram, the isomorph, attacked me, I thought I was going to die. And I couldn’t help thinking how unfair that was: to survive being stranded in space only to have my heart ripped out by some lunatic hologram.”</p><p>“You should have told him he couldn’t have it,” Tom joked, “that it was already taken.”</p><p>She huffed a laugh. “Yeah.” </p><p>“I was so scared when I saw you,” Tom confessed. “And when the Doc told me what that hologram had done to you…” </p><p>“He killed the crew.” She laid her head on his shoulder and Tom hugged her tighter. “He called them <em>Organics</em>, and it sounded like a… a slur. Like when the other kids at school used to call me <em>Klingon</em>.”</p><p>“B’Elanna.”</p><p>She straightened and shook her head. “I got a bad feeling about him right away. I knew there was something off, something he wasn’t telling us. But the Doctor was so determined to help him, to fix whatever was wrong.”</p><p>The ‘lift stopped and they walked to her quarters, Tom’s hand on the small of her back. He wanted to put his arm around her or hold her hand, but the corridor was becoming busy as the shift changed and people left their quarters to report to their stations. When they reached her door she quickly keyed in her code. Tom followed her inside. She walked toward her couch, and he thought she was going to sit but she turned toward him and held out a hand. He crossed the room and took it, then lowered his head and kissed her. It was soft and sweet, but she was holding back. </p><p>“What is it?” </p><p>She looked up at him, her gaze steady. “I need to know.”</p><p>Tom shook his head, confused. “Need to know what?”</p><p>“Do you love me?”</p><p>He almost laughed! “Yes.” He’d tried to tell her that last night, but she wouldn’t stop kissing him long enough for him to get the words out. He cupped her cheek, and a wash of tenderness swamped him. “B’Elanna, I’m crazy about you.” Sometimes literally. She’d driven him to the brink of exasperation and insanity in the past! </p><p>“I need to hear you say it.”</p><p>He remembered her almost unbearably beautiful, covered in dirt with leaves in her hair after Tuvok had ordered him to ‘help’ her. She’d pinned him to the ground and kissed him, and asked him what he was doing. He’d said flippantly that he was enjoying it, and her response, <em>Then show it!</em> had energized him. </p><p>She wasn’t asking with the same fervor now, but she was demanding just the same.</p><p>“I love you,” he said. He kissed her again and pulled her closer. “I do,” he said, “I love you, too. I’ve been in love with you for months but you didn’t give me any hint that you felt the same way.”</p><p>“I know. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“No.” He shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have told you sooner. I should have taken a chance that you meant what you said to me in those caves on Sakari, but…” he shook his head again. She was staring into his eyes as he spoke, and hers were dark, bottomless. </p><p>“I don’t want to waste another minute.” </p><p>“I don’t either,” he agreed. </p><p>This time, she kissed him. Her hands were in his hair, and she pressed her body against him. He gathered her in his arms, his hands sliding over her back and hips, settling at her waist. It felt so good to hold her again. She broke the kiss and pulled him toward her bed, but Tom hesitated. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”</p><p>“I think if it weren’t okay, the Doctor wouldn’t have been shy about telling us not to. Besides, he all but ordered you tuck me into bed.” She raised an eyebrow.</p><p>Tom couldn’t help but grin. The Doc had caught them in the middle of their first kiss, he definitely had an idea of what they were going to do to fill their time between now and tomorrow morning. </p><p>She’d slipped off her jacket, and turned back to him and pulled the fastener on his. “If you really are worried about my heart, we can go slower than last time.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s humanly possible to go faster,” he quipped. She laughed.</p><p>Tom made short work of stripping out of his jacket and turtleneck shirt; he looked up to see that B’Elanna had done the same. She dropped her bra onto the floor and Tom’s breath caught. She stepped into his arms and he slid his hand up her back, appreciating her smooth, soft skin and the lean muscles underneath. He was about to kiss her again—he could kiss her forever—when she pushed him onto the bed and climbed onto him, catching his hands and pinning them over his head. The look in her eyes was fierce when she swooped in for another kiss, and Tom couldn’t help but think, later, he’d have to finish that novel. He definitely wanted some tips on how to make her heart quicken. </p><p>***** </p><p>End Notes: I hate Tom’s stupid line about Harry &amp; his nervous breakdown. It was unnecessary for comic relief, and jarring in that the woman Tom is nuts about, who he’s chased for the better part of a year, who <em>not twelve hours ago confirmed that she does indeed love him</em>, just almost died, and he’s making a crack about Harry’s mental state re: his crush on Seven. Haha and fuck you B-squared. I refuse to believe that it was Lisa Klink’s idea. I took it out.</p><p>Remember in Elogium when the turbolift doors open and Chakotay catches two gold-uniformed people (‘fleet and Maquis) smooching? The Starfleet ensign was played by Gary O’Brien (who now uses a different first name that I’ve already forgotten), but I couldn’t find a name for the Maquis woman. I was tempted to call her Unknown Actress (Tress for short) but I pulled a name from the ‘unnamed Voyager personnel’ list instead: Valerie Canamar. It’ll have to do. </p><p>Also, prompts 24 &amp; 25 are coming in at about 10k words total and I’m thinking of yanking them from here and posting them as an actual story in their own right, but I probably won’t. I’ll likely leave them here for the five people who are still with me to enjoy. :) This will probably not be updated again until November (Back, foul NaNo! Begone!) because my idea for prompt 26 is longish.</p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. SUMMER VACATION/SPACE BAR</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>August Prompt #26: Summer Vacation/Space Bar</p><p> </p><p>A/N: Things—good, bad, in between—come to those who wait. And those who least expect it, I suppose. I’m not sure which this is. I've finally finished all the AUGUST prompts, yay! What a relief. Before you read this one, you might want to zip back and read #8 because it’s finally up. I’ll be putting up #10 with #27. Never again (until next time)!</p><p>So, a Firefly/Voyager crossover, anyone? If you love both series you can’t say you haven’t noticed the comparison, and I’ve had this in my head for a while, so I’ve wedged it into the prompt. Yes. I know. Just… go with it. It’s either this or B’Elanna working through shore leave trying to write a report on a PADD with a broken keyboard and Tom whining at her to come for a swim. I know what I’d rather read. It rambles, and not toward any point, alas. It’s both more than it should be and less than I could have made it, but I wasn’t in the mood to write a 70k story for a daily prompt that’s already six months late. Really, now that I consider it, this would have worked equally well with prompt #10. At least it’s over. </p><p>
  <em>In an AU somewhere out in the Black…</em>
</p><p>***<br/>Tom nodded at a group of tall, well-muscled aliens as he maneuvered around them in the crowded corridor. Though carrying weapons was prohibited on the space station, their clothing was reminiscent of armour with a padded breastplate and bandoliers that stretched from shoulder to opposite hip. It reminded Tom a little of the Kazon. He resisted the urge to stare. The space port orbited a class-M planet and was the size of a small moon. It had a spherical central core a hundred decks high, and was fashioned with ‘arms’ that supported concentric rings of decks. It reminded him a little of Deep Space 9, though ten times the size. </p><p>As well as births for passing ships, the station boasted docks for the loading and unloading of cargo, accommodation available to rent by the day or week—or, most likely, by the hour—and a vast shopping district that spanned ten levels and offered everything from a new pair of custom made boots to a suit suitable for a fancy shindig, from food stuffs to engine parts. It was the latter that had swayed the captain’s decision to dock here. That and their shipyards. </p><p><i>Voyager</i> was currently nestled at pier 0047, undergoing a few emergency repairs. B’Elanna and Harry were trying to track down some compatible <i>something or others</i> that were needed if they wanted the ship’s thrusters to continue working, so Tom was left alone to wander the station. Many of the crew had taken advantage of their being dry docked to book some shore leave on the planet. Tom planned to cajole B’Elanna into a few days at one of the resorts, if he ever found her again among the mass of people. </p><p>The station boasted floor to ceiling viewports that angled outward, edged with an inner freestanding skeleton of support beams to which the gangway was attached at each level. There was a handrail that prevented people from walking directly into the windows, but if you weren’t careful, and you were particularly short, you could get bumped by someone in the crowd and fall hundreds of meters. Tom took care to stay on the inward side of the corridor. He’d been sightseeing, enjoying the odd-looking station with it’s odder-looking wares, and the variety of beings who were here shopping or simply gawking, like him. He came to a wide viewing area ringed at one end by restaurants and food and beverage stalls. It opened out into a plaza with tables and stools, and some padded couches set at intervals under the wide viewports at the far end. It reminded him of a twentieth-century airport, looking out on the tarmac. The view outside the window drew him.</p><p>He found a space at the observation rail between a tall alien with purple skin and several prehensile tentacles that were waving as he spoke with a shorter being with a ruff of fur around his chin and shoulders, and a humanoid of about his height who was bent over and leaning on the rail with his chin in his palm. Tom took in the sight of the shipyard below: there were a few dozen vessels of various sizes berthed between the ‘arms’ of the docking ports, some attached to the main structure via cables, others with an ‘umbilical’ tying the ship to the access hatches spotting the horizontal ribbing that connected the ports. Small repair-bots hovered over the hull of many of the ships, and shuttles zipped from one area to another, likely carrying equipment or supplies. He spotted <i>Voyager</i> berthed a few levels below him beside a boxy freighter; she glowed next to the larger, ugly ship, and Tom felt a swell of pride when he looked at her. </p><p>The purple-skinned alien at his side bumped him as he and his companion turned to leave, and Tom took a step to the side to avoid a questing tentacle. This resulted in Tom bumping into the man on his right. He turned to apologize. “Sorry,” he said. The man, who looked remarkably Human, was gawking at the purple-skinned alien and his companion. He turned rounded eyes on Tom. </p><p>“Did you see that?” he asked, a note of wonder in his voice. “He had a…” He brought a cupped hand to his nose and ‘pulled’ the air between his face and his fingertips in an outward motion. “And a…” The same gesture, but describing an arc that rose above his head and to the right. “Cap’n said I shouldn’t stare, but…” He shook his head. </p><p>Tom smiled, wondering what the man would make of Species 8472. “If you’re out here long enough, no one surprises you. Though, when my ship was first brought to this quadrant of space…” Tom paused as he thought about his next words, “some of the new species we met took a little getting used to.” </p><p>“I’ll say it does,” the man said. He gestured toward Tom, who was dressed in the same blue jeans and patterned shirt he’d worn when <i>Voyager</i> had been transported to 1996 Earth. “But we look pretty much the same.”</p><p>Tom smiled as he took in the other man’s vibrantly patterned shirt. “I’ve learned you can’t tell from what’s on the outside,” he said.</p><p>“I guess that’s true enough. Hoban Washburne.” He stuck out a hand. “You can call me Wash. “You passing through or are you local?”</p><p>“Lieutenant Tom Paris,” Tom answered. “Tom.” He shook. “No, we’re just passing through. My ship’s a military vessel though we like to think of ourselves as explorers.” He was tempted to ask where Wash was from, but protocol and the thought of his father’s disappointment held his tongue. The other man looked and sounded Human… Of course, so had that woman, Tal, who Harry had fallen so hard for when they’d encountered the Varro generational ship.</p><p>“In for some tradin’ or repairs?” Wash asked him.</p><p>“Repairs,” Tom answered. “Our chief engineer says that if we don’t rehaul the thrusters, we’re never leaving. This place is interesting, but I don’t think I want to call it home.” He smiled, hoping Wash got the joke. </p><p>The man nodded, then gestured to the viewport and the repair yard below them. “Your ship’s down there?” he asked. </p><p>Tom stepped back up to the rail and pointed. “There. <i>Voyager’s</i> the silver one on the end with the long nose.”</p><p>Wash followed the direction he was pointing, then let out a long whistle. “She’s a beauty!” he enthused. “Can’t be hauling cargo in a ship like that,” he mused.</p><p>“People, actually,” Tom said. “Our crew. Though, we do have a couple of cargo holds that we try to keep stocked with food supplies and spare components.”</p><p>“Must be a big crew.”</p><p>“A hundred and fifty, more or less,” Tom confirmed. </p><p>Wash widened his eyes. “I’ll bet it’s hard to get privacy, that many people on your boat.” He looked back out at the rows of docked ships. </p><p>“It’s not easy to keep a secret,” Tom agreed, his mouth twisting into a rueful smile as he remembered how quickly the news of B’Elanna’s pregnancy had gone around the ship. </p><p>“I’d love to take out a ship like that one day,” Wash said. “Must be a thrill to fly her.”</p><p>“It is.” He felt a swell of pride at the compliment. “You’re a pilot, too?” Tom asked. “Where’s your ship?” </p><p>Wash squinted as he surveyed the line of vessels of various shapes and sizes docked at the repair berths. “There.” </p><p>He pointed to a small, squat ship that looked slightly insect-like to Tom. It had a hooked forward compartment that he assumed was the bridge, and a central body comprising three spherical sections, the one on the end likely the engine room and power core. It had several curved struts surrounding it, and Tom wondered if the ship could set down on a planet vertically, much like an old Earth rocket ship. He smiled at the thought. Two short, barrel-shaped engines protruded from the sides of the ship like truncated wings. It was endearingly ugly. </p><p>“Do you have a large crew?” Tom asked. It was hard to tell, and Wash had alluded to the fact that they carried cargo, so Tom was unsure how many people would fit in the smaller craft. </p><p>“Ten, at the moment,” he answered.”With room for cargo, whatever the job is, couple of passengers if there’s any.” he shrugged. “One of our crew makes her place on one of the two shuttles but she joins us for meals in the galley.” </p><p>Tom nodded appreciatively, admiring the use of space in the odd-looking vessel. It wasn’t the most attractive ship he’d ever seen, even out here away from the sleek beauty of Federation design, but it seemed perfectly suited for its use. “She looks too small to hold that many people and cargo,” Tom said. </p><p>Wash shrugged. “We’ve got a few hidey holes. She takes care of us.” </p><p>Tom smiled. He wondered what it would be like to be out here in a ship that small. Or even in Federation space, if they made it home. It seemed the perfect size for him and B’Elanna. Maybe, if they made it home before they were all old and gray, they could get their own small ship, like Seven’s parents had, and explore. Just him, B’Elanna, and a couple of kids. Or three, or four, or five… His smile softened at the thought. Of course, after ten or twenty years on <i>Voyager</i> it was possible that B’Elanna would never want to set foot onboard a starship again.</p><p>“Is she fast?” Tom asked.</p><p>“Fast enough for us,” Wash acknowledged. “Got us out of more’n a few scrapes.” </p><p>“Looks maneuverable, too,” Tom commented. </p><p>Wash tilted his head and squinted at him. “You ever pulled a Crazy Ivan in your <i>Voyager</i>?” he asked.</p><p>Tom shook his head. “What’s a…?” </p><p>“<i>Serenity’s</i> engines rotate two hundred forty degrees,” Wash explained, “I can turn her around without turnin’ her around. Hard on the coils, especially when she makes a sudden stop an’ reverse, but faster than looping around to change direction.” </p><p>Tom could reverse, of course, but his mouth hung open as he tried to imagine it: <i>Voyager’s</i> nacelles spinning a hundred and eighty degrees while he pushed the ship to full impulse; he wouldn’t dare try a trick like that at warp. He’d have to tell B’Elanna. “She’d kill me,” he murmured. At Wash’s raised eyebrow, he clarified. “My wife. She’s also our chief engineer.” </p><p>Wash’s mouth split in a wide smile. “I’m married, too. She’s our cap’n’s second. All this conversation,” Wash said, “man builds up quite a thirst. You wouldn’t want to go sample a local brew?” He shot a glance beyond Tom’s shoulder, then looked back at him and raised an eyebrow in invitation.</p><p>Tom studied the line of restaurants and bars that ringed the open dining area, then turned back toward Wash. “Actually, I’d like that,” he said.</p><p>* </p><p>They were halfway down their second mug of local beer, a surprisingly crisp ale with a citrusy taste and a slightly bitter finish, when Wash asked him, “So, what brings your ship to this part of space?” </p><p>“More like ‘who’,” Tom answered, weighing how much to say to this garrulous, good-natured man. </p><p>Wash was easy company and the alcohol had relaxed him, and it felt good to spend time with someone new talking about ships and flying. They’d covered childhood dreams of getting out <i>into the black</i>, and Tom’s short-lived desire to join the navy, and the impossible situations they’d both managed to pull off due partly to skill and partly to desperation. Tom hadn’t mentioned breaking warp ten, but he had described the plasma towers in the Badlands back home, and the time his shuttle had been sucked into a plasma eddy and he’d ended up in an interfold layer between space and subspace. </p><p>Wash had been suitably awed. He sipped his beer and waited for Tom to construct a reply to his question. </p><p>“Seven years ago our ship encountered a coherent tetryon beam. It scanned us, then, before we could avoid it, we were hit with a displacement wave that somehow pulled us seventy thousand light years from our position. We’ve been working our way home ever since.”</p><p>“Seventy thousand?” Wash whistled. </p><p>“With a lot of luck, we’ve managed to cut our trip in half,” Tom continued. “We might even get back to the Alpha Quadrant before I have grandkids running around <i>Voyager</i>.” He smiled. </p><p>“And you just happened across this port?” he asked. </p><p>“We heard about this place from a Nygean ship we encountered a few weeks ago, and the captain thought it was worth a look.” Tom took a long swallow of his beer. “What about you?” </p><p>The other man shrugged. “Pretty boring story, actually. We thought we were alone in the ‘verse ‘til we were contacted by a race from outside our solar system. Came in through a jump gate.” He shrugged. “They shared ‘em. Put an end to the power struggle ‘been going on for years back home.” </p><p>Tom nodded. There was nothing like being confronted by a power that seemed almost god-like to make you realize just how small you are, and how unimportant your squabbles were. But there was something profoundly simple about what Wash had said: they’d thought they were alone, until they realized that they weren’t. Maybe it was the beer. He took another swallow and grinned. He was alone until B’Elanna, and now he wasn’t. Alone, drifting in the black, until she’d told him she loved him…  </p><p>“You said, <i>who</i>, before. When I asked how your ship got here.”</p><p>Had he? Tom frowned, trying to align his muddled thoughts. Oh, yeah. “The ds’splacement wave that dragged us here wasn’t a natural phenom’non. Alien created it; he’d been bringing ships from my quadrant to here for years,” he explained. </p><p>“Huh,” Wash grunted. “Did he have a…” He repeated the motion with his cupped fingers, miming either a huge nose or a tentacle. Tom laughed.</p><p>“No. Actually, according to the captain, once he appeared as an old man. But after he died he looked like a chunk of crystalline rock. She keeps him on a shelf in ‘er ready room.” </p><p>They both laughed at that, then, at Wash’s incredulous “Serious?” Tom held up his hands. “I’m just kidding. Though, I don’t really know what his species looks like.” He shrugged.</p><p>“Hello, boys.” They were interrupted by an attractive young woman in a short, clingy dress. “Are either of you looking for some company? Both will cost more.” </p><p>Tom’s eyebrows shot up at the woman’s bold statement. He simply raised his left hand and waggled his fingers. Light glinted off the wide gold band. “Wedding ring,” he said. “My wife would object. Harshly.” </p><p>She turned and focused her attention on Wash. He let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks, but I like my intestines where they are: inside my body.” </p><p>It was obvious from the woman’s confused frown that she didn’t understand his statement, but she merely shrugged and wandered away to the next group of people a little way down the bar. </p><p>Tom chuckled. “Is your wife hav-Klingon, too?” he asked. It was Wash’s turn to frown. “A Beda Quadran’ species,” Tom informed him, only slurring slightly. He dug into the back pocket in his jeans and pulled out a palmPADD, and thumbed it on. He tapped in the command to bring up a photograph of him and B’Elanna on their honeymoon in the Delta Flyer. Tom was seated at the helm, B’Elanna in his lap. They were smiling at the camera, both holding glasses of champagne, and B’Elanna’s wedding ring was on display. He handed the PADD to Wash.</p><p>He studied the photograph for a few moments. “Your ships’ not the only thing that’s a beauty,” he commented. He squinted at the photo, then handed back the PADD. He pointed at his own forehead and looked a question at Tom. </p><p>“Klingon’s have cranial ridges,” Tom explained. “An’ a extra stomach. An’ a temper.” He smiled and leaned toward the other man conspiratorially. “I kinda like her temper,” he confided. “She’s amazing. Beautiful, brilliant, waay smarter ‘n me.” Wash nodded into his glass. “Wah’d abo’ your wife?” Tom asked. </p><p>“Zoe is beautiful, and fierce, and scary sometimes. And loyal. Not to me so much, but to the captain,” he amended. “She didn’t like me much when we first met,” he confided, “but I had a mustache so…” He shrugged.</p><p>Tom nodded solemnly in agreement. B’Elanna hadn’t thought much of him when they first met either, and all he’d had was a few day’s stubble. He fumbled the PADD back into his pocket and picked up his mug. Somehow, it was empty. He squinted at the bartender and two new mugs of ale appeared in front of them. “D’y’av a picture of her?” </p><p>Wash made a show of patting his chest and ribcage, and Tom admired his brightly patterned shirt once more. Wash came up empty and shook his head. “Nope. But, hey,” his eyes lit with an idea and he stabbed a finger toward Tom’s nose. “I’ll bet there’s a place here that’ll do it. But trus’ me, Zoe is th’mos beautiful woman in the ‘verse. And sexy. And scary. She can be scary.” He was starting to slur his words, too. </p><p>“My wife defines beauty for me,” Tom said. His face had taken on a soft, unfocused expression and he sighed deeply.</p><p>Wash drew back and almost slid off his barstool. “Wow. That is a great line!”</p><p>“Naw’ mine,” Tom confessed, “but it applies.”</p><p>“Yeah…” Wash nodded. “I’ll r’member that.”</p><p>Tom frowned. “And she can be pretty darned scary, herself.” He glanced conspiratorially at his new best friend and they traded grins. “So, how’d you meet?” he asked. </p><p>“Took a job on the <i>Serenity</i>,” Wash recounted. “She was wearing these pants…” His eyes took on that dreamy expression that Tom’s had just held. His hands traced a flowing figure in the air, “An’ this vest…”</p><p>“Boots?” Tom asked. He pictured B’Elanna in her old Maquis clothing: suede pants, leather vest, those boots.” He bit his lower lip on a sigh.</p><p>Wash propped his elbows on the bar. “An’ she hayd’ed me!” He leaned toward Tom, his upper body <i>sloshing</i> toward him like liquid in an overturned glass, and Tom raised a hand and braced him before he fell off the stool. He was <i>washed</i> with the scent of beer on the other man’s breath. “Buh she came ‘round.” He sent Tom a slow, exaggerated wink. “You ever been with a Warrior Woman,” he asked. </p><p>“You kidding?” Tom frowned. “B’lana’s half-Klingon, rem’ber? They’re a whole race of warriors. Very honourable,” he added solemnly. “An’ boy can they drink!” He suddenly remembered the mug of beer in his hand and took a hearty slug; some liquid spilled out of the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin. He wiped it with his forearm. </p><p>“Ohhh… yeah,” Wash said. He took a thoughtful pull of his own beer. </p><p>“Plus, she use’ t’be’a Maquis… free’om fighter.”</p><p>Wash’s eyes went round. “Zoe, too!” </p><p>Tom’s forehead scrunched up into a fair imitation of Klingon forehead ridges. “Is’shhee Klingon, too?!” </p><p>“Mm’naw,” Wash answered. “She’sh a Browncoat.” </p><p>“Thash too’ba,” Tom shook his head in sympathy. “You know w’a th’say about Klingon women. Well...ish all true.”</p><p>Wash stabbed Tom in the chest with a finger that was a bit too bendy to be threatening. “You’re a lucky man,” he said.</p><p>“Don’t I know it! I work out. Ha’ t’stay in shape.” He patted down his own torso. “Good thing <i>Voy’ger</i> has a Holodeck.” </p><p>“A Hol’deck?! Wha’sh tha’?”</p><p>Tom thought for a moment. “Ish’ a room that uses light an’ forcefields to make it look like people an’ things,” he explained. </p><p>“We… we ha’ tha’,” Wash said, delighted. “For...things.”</p><p>“You wri’ a comp’ut’r program,” Tom continued, “an’ it comes alive. Like you an’ me, here.” He twirled on his stool and gestured around the room. “With walls, an’ furn’cher, an’ people. But they’re not real people. ‘Cept our doctor. He’s a hol’gram, too.”</p><p>“Really?” Wash’s mouth dropped open. “Our doctor’s a … doctor. I’d love to try your hol’deck.! Wha’ programs do you run?”</p><p>“Sports, som’time: wadder skiing, alpine skiing, Velos’ty. Our XO boxes. B’lana likes the beach programs.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Wash nodded in agreement. “Zoey would like to lounge on a beach. In a bikini… We’re go’in t’spend a few days on the plant.” He pointed downward. </p><p>Tom nodded solemnly. “Us too, soonz she finds the parts she wants. Hey,” he smacked Wash gently in the chest, and Wash looked down at Tom’s hand. His head bobbed as he tried to focus. “We could vay’ca’shun t’geth’er!” </p><p>“Tha’ld be sho mush fun!” </p><p>“An’ you ha’ ta’ come on <i>Voy’ger</i>,” Tom said. “I wrote this prog’ram, Cap’n Proton. Iss’ base’d on a’ old 20th cent’ry vision of the future. I ha’ this great costume wish’ a leather jacket an’ boots. And a rocket pack!”</p><p>Wash’s mouth dropped open again in a silent expression of awe. “Does Bah’lana play?”</p><p>Tom shook his head. “Naw. I hop’d she would. I wro’ a character for her: ‘rachnia, Queen of the Spider People.” Wash nodded sagely. “The cos’toom was thish long, tight dresh,” Tom repeated Wash’s hand movements from a while ago, sculpting a buxom feminine figure in the air with his hands, “Buh’ she r’fused. Our cap’n played it. Had a goo’ time. Saved the universe.” Tom nodded, agreeing with himself.</p><p>Wash guffawed, his laughter making him rock him dangerously on the barstool. Tom raised an eyebrow. “I’m imagining my capt’n, Mal, in the dresh!” Wash explained. Tom joined him in laughing until they were both in tears. The bartender brought them a fresh round of ale.</p><p>“Ish’ too bah’ B’lana won’t do it, though,” Wash said, a note of mourning in his tone. </p><p>Tom batted the idea away with a swipe of his hand. “Dresh wo’n’t fit now an’way. She’sh gon’t have a baby.” </p><p>“Yours?!” Wash grinned in delight.</p><p>“Uh, huh,” Tom answered. He smiled dreamily, and Wash slapped him on the back.</p><p>“I would love to ha’ Zoe’s baby,” Wash said, sincerity shining in his expression. “When’re you due?”</p><p>“Maybe two months.”</p><p>“Maybe?”</p><p>“Mixed hair’tige, har’ to guess,” Tom explained. “She looksh jus’ like her mother.”</p><p>Wash’s forehead drew into a pretty good impression of Klingon cranial ridges as his eyebrows rose toward his hair. “But how…? Is your… Is your wife’s belly transparent?!?!”</p><p>“No!” Tom scowled. “No, nonono. We ha’ a scan’er that can tell ush’ wha’ our baby is going to look like.”</p><p>“That’s amazing!” </p><p>“We made a hol’gram,” Tom informed him.</p><p>“Aww, Wash, you made a new friend.” They were interrupted by the arrival of a young woman with wide hazel eyes and an infectious smile. </p><p>Tom turned toward her and smiled. “Is thish your wife?” he asked.</p><p>“No,” Wash shook his head. “Thish is my Kaylee.” He leaned over to give her a pat on the shoulder. </p><p>“Tom Parishiss…” Tom said. He extended a hand to shake hers, then thought better of it and gripped the bar instead.</p><p>“Hi.” She sent him a little wave.</p><p>“Quadrotriticale,” Tom responded. He grinned. “It’s a type of grain. Like your hair.” </p><p>Her eyebrows drew together as she sent Wash a confused smile. “He’s a pilot, too,” Wash assured her.</p><p>“What do you do on your ship?” He stood and offered her his seat.</p><p>“I’m <i>Serenity’s</i> mechanic,” she answered. “I keep her going. Machines just speak to me.”</p><p>“Oh!” Tom’s face split in a delighted grin. “You’re a’ engineer? Blana’s’an engineer too!”</p><p>“Tha’sh his wife,” Wash confided. “He’s married.”</p><p>“That’s… nice.” She sighed a little wistfully.</p><p>“Kaylee, these strange men bothering you?” </p><p>They all turned at the question, and Wash seemed to melt into a puddle of sentimental goo. He slid off of the barstool and lurched toward the woman who had joined them. </p><p>“Zooh’ey!” he slurred. “My flower! My heart!” He reached for her, and she caught his arms before they could wrap around her shoulders.</p><p>“You’re drunk, husband,” she observed.</p><p>“I’m drunk on your dusky beauty, honey.” He spoke slowly, taking pains to enunciate each word very clearly. He grinned and nodded. “Maybe I am a little,” he admitted. He looked at Tom, “This is my Zoe, wife.”</p><p>Tom sent her what he hoped was a dazzling smile. Wash thumped him on the shoulder then slid an arm around him and patted him on the back. “Thish is my good friend, Tom Paris.” He grinned at his wife. “From the other quadrant. He’s <i>Voy’ger’s</i> pilot.”</p><p>“Really?” Zoey, answered. She looked at Tom, assessing him, then turned her attention back to her husband. “You two could form a club.”</p><p>“You could get tee shirts!” Kaylee suggested with a grin. “With a picture of your ship, and <i>I’m the pilot</i> written on ‘em.” She traced a line across her chest to illustrate where the lettering would go.</p><p>Tom and Wash turned their heads to stare at each other, a stunned but delighted expression on both their faces. “What a great idea!” Wash enthused. “An’ I bet ther’sh’a shop on the station that will do that.”</p><p>“Tom?”</p><p>At the sound of his name, he turned. B’Elanna stood beside the bar with one hand resting on her extended abdomen, and an eyebrow raised in inquiry. Tom’s face lit up when he saw her, and he reached for her hand and drew her into a hug. He landed a kiss on her hair. “You’re here,” he said, needlessly. He slid a possessive arm around her and turned back to their audience. “Thish,” he said, a dreamy smile softening his features, “ish’ my wife!”</p><p>B’Elanna tilted her head slightly and glanced at him; he was smiling adoringly back at her. She waited a few moments but that was all the introduction that Tom gave her. She extended her hand to a tall woman with dark, curly hair dressed in a form fitting leather vest and a wide belt that cinched in her narrow waist. Maybe one day… she thought. “I’m B’Elanna Torres, from the Federation starship, <i>Voyager</i>.”</p><p>“Zoe,” the woman replied. “We sail on the <i>Serenity</i>.” </p><p>She introduced B’Elanna to her husband and a younger woman dressed in a jumpsuit. They shook hands. “Tom here says you’re an engineer,” Kaylee said.  </p><p>“Yes. I’m <i>Voyager’s</i> chief engineer.” </p><p>Kaylee grinned in delight. “Me, too. Well, really I’m <i>Serenity’s</i> only engineer.” </p><p>“Right. Sorry. She’s the chief,” Tom agreed. His gaze floated down to her abdomen. “And this is our daughter.” He hadn’t lost his dreamy smile as he rubbed her belly.</p><p>Wash turned toward his own wife. “They’re having a baby, honey!”</p><p>“I see that,” she answered. </p><p>“Tom, are you drunk?” </p><p>B’Elanna was eyeing him, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He pulled himself upright. “I’m drunk on your dus...dusty...” he stumbled.</p><p>“Dusky beauty,” Wash supplied.</p><p>“Right,” Tom answered. B’Elanna’s mouth set into a firm line. “Wash got me drunk,” he explained. “Thish s’not snyth...sith. Hol.” </p><p>“I can see that,” B’Elanna responded. She addressed Zoe as she gestured to her husband. “He’s yours?”</p><p>“Time being,” Zoe confirmed. “Ain’t decided on the future, yet.”</p><p>“I know that feeling,” B’Elanna agreed. </p><p>“Hear that?” Wash gestured to Zoe, “tha’sh why I married her.” He frowned, perplexed. “I’m not sure why she married me.”</p><p>The two women shared a knowing look. </p><p>“I’m not married,” Kaylee sighed. </p><p>B’Elanna turned to her with a smile. “Your days must be so peaceful,” she said. “We’re here another few days, would like to see our engine room? I can arrange a tour of the ship. We’re docked in the repairs yards at pier 0047.” </p><p>“That’s your ship?” Kaylee’s eyes went round. “The pretty silver one? I was lookin’ at her, she’s a beauty. She’s huge!” </p><p>“We have a crew of about a hundred and fifty people,” B’Elanna said. “Believe me, there are times when the ship feels pretty small.”</p><p>“Soon it’ll be a hundred and fifty-one.” Tom sent her a sappy smile.</p><p>B’Elanna turned back to him. “So, while I’ve been searching the station for parts, you’ve been making a new best friend. Harry will be jealous.”</p><p>“Harry?” Kaylee asked. “Who’s Harry? Is… he... married, too?”</p><p>“Nope. But I’m afraid you’re not really his type.” Kaylee’s face fell, and B’Elanna turned to admonish him. “No, no,” Tom clarified. “It’s not you. It’s just that you’re not dead or a Borg. Do you have a twin sister?”</p><p>“Tom!” B’Elanna couldn’t help but grin. She turned to Kaylee with an apologetic shake of her head. “Harry has had bad luck with romance,” she explained. </p><p>“Do you have a picture of your ship on that...thing?” Wash gestured to Tom’s back pocket. </p><p>Tom nodded and pulled out the padd. He tapped a few buttons and pulled up the specs for <i>Voyager</i>, then proudly showed the picture on the screen to Wash. “Come! Come with me,” Wash insisted. </p><p>“Where are we going?” Tom asked. He glanced at B’Elanna, but she just shrugged.</p><p>“We’re doing it. We’re getting those tee shirts.”</p><p>“Don’t you think you’re a little far gone for that, husband…?” Zoe asked.</p><p>“I’ll go with ‘em,” Kaylee offered. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep ‘em safe.” She linked arms with them and smiled broadly. “I like being escorted by two handsome men.”</p><p>They started toward the door, and Tom looked back over his shoulder at B’Elanna. “She thinks I’m handsome.” He sent her a delighted grin as Wash led him out into the concourse.</p><p>* </p><p>A few hours later, B’Elanna was in her quarters consulting the repair schedule on a PADD. It looked like they’d be here a few days longer than she’d anticipated; maybe she and Tom could squeeze in that shore leave he’d been hinting at. She was sitting on the sofa with the viewports to her back, pretending that the station’s repair bots weren’t looking into her quarters and observing her. She was going to replicate curtains, she decided. Thick heavy ones with a bilenium lining that blocked scanners. </p><p>The door opened and she glanced up as Tom strode into the cabin. He was carrying a bundle under one arm and wore a happy grin. “You made it back,” she said. “Did you and Wash have fun?”</p><p>“Uh, huh.” He leaned down to kiss her then pulled back with a smile. He appeared to have sobered up a bit since she’d seen him in the bar. </p><p>“You were gone for a while,” she pointed out. “I was starting to wonder if you got lost.” </p><p>Tom sat beside her and put his bundle on the coffee table. “Wash and Kaylee showed me through <i>Serenity</i>,” he said. “It’s a sweet ship.” </p><p>She tilted her head to one side as she smiled at him. “Zoe pointed it out to me; it’s ugly, Tom.” </p><p>“Sure,” he agreed, “but it has… heart. I can picture us flying off on adventures in a little ship like that: you, me, Miral… her brothers and sisters—” </p><p>“Brothers <i>and</i> sisters?” she asked, one eyebrow climbing. “Plural of each?” </p><p>“Oh, yeah. Their ship can fly with a crew of three but why not have enough kids for four shifts?” He grinned at her, and she laughed. </p><p>“Have as many as you want, you’re carrying the rest,” she reminded him. She rubbed her belly, and he kissed her again. </p><p>“If I could, I would, gladly,” he said. </p><p>“And you went shopping?” </p><p>He nodded. “I got you a present. Actually, I got us all a present.” </p><p>He placed the package in her lap and gestured for her to open it. Sure enough, it held a bundle of fabric: the tee shirts Wash had mentioned. On the top was a blue one, I’M THE PILOT written across the chest in bold, white block letters with a picture of <i>Voyager</i> placed in between I’M THE and PILOT. The second, in a dark red, had a photo of the warp core, with I’M THE CHIEF cutting through the photograph. She held it up and her mouth pursed in suppressed laughter. It was big enough for Tom. It was big enough for Chell. She glanced at him, and his expression was apologetic. </p><p>“I guess it’s a little big,” he admitted. “I wanted to make sure it fit over your belly.”  </p><p>“It’ll fit us both. At the same time.” She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek anyway, for the thought.</p><p>“There’s one more,” Tom said. </p><p>B’Elanna lifted up a tiny pale pink shirt. The fabric was soft, and it was emblazoned with a picture of Toby the Targ, beneath it, in scrolly sparkly, dark pink letters were the words, <i>I’m the BOSS</i>. B’Elanna fingered the fabric and was surprised to find her throat closing and her eyes tearing up. “It’s hard to believe she’ll be this tiny,” she said.</p><p>“Well, you probably won’t want her much bigger,” Tom said. “Not when you’re giving birth, anyway.” </p><p>She bubbled a laugh and he slid an arm around her and hugged her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, holding the tiny shirt on her lap. “Did you ask Tuvok about a tour of engineering for Kaylee?” Tom asked. “She was pretty excited about the idea.”</p><p>She nodded. “Tomorrow, if she’s available. Zoe told me how to contact their ship so I’ll ask her.” </p><p>“You know,” Tom’s hand settled on her belly again, “Zoe and Kaylee are nice names for a little girl.” </p><p>“I thought we’d agreed to name her after my mother,” B’Elanna said. </p><p>“Sure,” Tom agreed. “<i>This</i> baby.” She smiled, catching on to what he was about to say. “I'm talking about a name for the next babies.” </p><p>“Are you forgetting that we have to name one after Chakotay? And Neelix’ sister,” she reminded him.</p><p>“And I’m pretty sure Harry would like a namesake.” </p><p>“Fine,” she said, “but I’m not naming a baby ‘Wash’.” </p><p>Tom laughed. “Actually, he told me his first name is Hoban. It’s got a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”</p><p>She was thoughtful for a moment then nodded. “You’re right, it does.” She rubbed her belly. “Maybe we’ll name the next one after my mother,” she said.</p><p>Tom grinned, then leaned in to kiss his wife again. “Let’s try on that tee shirt,” he suggested.</p><p>“Don’t you mean, shirts?” </p><p>“Nope.” He picked up the red one from her lap. “I want to see if we’ll both fit.”</p><p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. DREAM - WORD FOR WORD</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: I don’t know why I didn’t just write an Alice coda.</p>
<p>****</p>
<p>“<em>All I’m asking is that you consider the possibility that this didn’t happen.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Stop pushing me! I don’t want your help! ...I’m sorry.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>You know where to find me.</em>” </p>
<p>B’Elanna was out the door and gone, his quiet apology hanging in the empty air. While he’d dealt with the memories of the massacre on Takaris, she’d given him time and space, two things that he’d thought he wanted. Things he’d demanded. Things he’d assumed would make him feel better. They hadn’t. Neither had having her suspicions confirmed, or the small ceremony he, the captain, and the others had performed down on the planet at the site of the memorial. He’d wanted her there with him but she hadn’t been affected by the implanted memories, and they’d still been feeling the tension of their argument. She had stayed behind on the ship. </p>
<p>He’d beamed back to <em>Voyager</em> with the others, and Janeway had advised them to take some time to reflect on what they’d experienced before she’d bid them all a good night. He’d realized then that he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to see B’Elanna. He needed to apologize for his brutish behaviour in his quarters, yes, but he also wanted to look at her, wanted to feel her concern for him, her acceptance of him despite what he’d done. What he still <em>felt</em> like he’d done despite evidence to the contrary.</p>
<p>He hadn’t known where she was after all. She hadn’t been in engineering. She wasn’t in the mess hall, or astrometrics, or the hololab. He finally asked the computer for her location—Jefferies tube 84—but when he got there, she was gone. By the time he landed in the corridor outside her door, his serenity was about as frayed as the small bouquet of roses that he held clutched in his hand, three red and three white to symbolize their unity and his love for her. He’d forgone the bottle of merlot this time. This was an apology, not a celebration.</p>
<p>Half the ship had witnessed his trek through ten decks, though no one had commented. He wondered what they’d been thinking: Volatile, explosive B’Elanna Torres had snapped again and started a fight with poor Tom Paris, victim of alien mind-control, and he was forced to apologize if he wanted any peace. </p>
<p>Except… She hadn't been the one arguing. Her last words to him before she’d left his quarters two days ago had been a little terse, yes, but she’d held her temper. He’d been the one yelling, the one who’d been screaming at her, taking her concern and throwing it back at her. She’d been actively working on reining in her temper for several months, since she’d been ordered to start meditation sessions with Tuvok. He’d noticed. At Chakotay’s urging, she’d been studying for the Bridge Officer’s exam, and her evenings had been taken up reading PADDS full of Starfleet rules and procedures. Except for one explosive, quarters-wrecking incident after <em>the Equinox</em>—after Max Burke, that piece of shit—she’d been almost serene. </p>
<p>“<em>Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do but I’d rather just be alone.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Tom…</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>No. I don’t want to be comforted right now!</em>”</p>
<p>The last time he’d screamed at her like that, <em>Alice</em> had taken over his head and forced him to rebuild her ship, forced him to lie and sneak around scrounging for parts and tools. B’Elanna had confronted him then too, and fought back when Alice had made him deny it. She’d shaken him out of his illusion and forced him back to reality, but he still remembered every lie he’d told her, every horrible threatening word he’d screamed at her. </p>
<p>“<em>The important thing is, you woke up.</em>”</p>
<p>She’d blamed it on mind-control then, too. </p>
<p>God knows she’d frustrated him many times, had made him tighten his jaw and grind his teeth until he thought they’d crack, but he’d always managed to stay mostly in control of his temper. Maybe he wasn’t really the screaming type? </p>
<p>Of course, the people with quarters adjoining either of theirs would argue that fact… He snorted a little laugh.</p>
<p>He felt a sudden, sharp longing for her. Not just for the closeness they shared, the sex, but for <i>her</i>. She’d forgiven him over Alice, and she would forgive him now, he knew. But did he deserve that forgiveness? Did he even want it? He still felt in his gut that pinched, sick feeling: the guilt. Like the hangover from a nightmare. He remembered his orders, the sound of weapons fire, trying to keep the civilians calm as they started to scream and run for cover. The burning in his arm when he was wounded by the enemy forces.</p>
<p>And the pressure on his finger as it tightened on the trigger of his rifle. </p>
<p>Intellectually, he knew that he didn’t help to kill eighty-two people. But, realistically, he had to admit that he’d likely killed far more than that number already. For all their talk of discovery and scientific exploration, Starfleet was a military organization. How many times had he fired a phaser at an enemy? Or lined up <em>Voyager</em> so Tuvok could fire on an attacking ship? It didn’t matter that the lives he’d taken weren’t <em>innocent</em>.</p>
<p>The sounds of muffled conversation came from beyond a bend in the corridor and he quickly pressed her door’s buzzer. It was that or lay the flowers on the floor in front of her doorway. The door slid open and there she was, close enough to reach out and touch. </p>
<p>“You’re back,” she said simply. Her voice was soft and held a hint of surprise. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he agreed. He stood there, uncertain of his next move now that they were face to face, uncertain of what he should say or do to make it better. He stared at her, gauging her mood. She was still dressed in her uniform though she’d removed her jacket. On the coffee table behind her, he could see a pile of PADDS. The air in her quarters held the acrid fug of Klingon incense. He wondered if she’d just halted a playback of Klingon chanting. <em>Unfair,</em> his conscience objected. <em>Don’t be an asshole.</em> </p>
<p>After a few moments, she broke the silence. “Are those for me?”</p>
<p>Her mouth turned up in that crooked smile, and the air left Tom’s lungs. He nodded and held out the small bouquet to her. She took it and raised it to her nose, tilting her head downard to take a sniff. The white roses had no scent, but the red carried a peppery, spicy perfume that he’d hoped she wouldn’t find too cloying. He studied the line of her forehead; her feathered ridges; the prominent bridge of her nose; the curve of her cheek. </p>
<p>She glanced up at him and smiled again. “Did you want to come in?” she asked. He’d made no move to enter even though he could have easily slipped past her. </p>
<p>He filled his lungs and straightened, and she backed away, giving him room. </p>
<p>“They’re beautiful,” she said, her words filling the silence, “but unnecessary.”</p>
<p>“I thought they were.” His breath came out in a sigh. “I am so sorry,” he began. She stopped him with a shake of her head. </p>
<p>“No. You have no reason to apologize.” </p>
<p>He took a step toward her. “Yeah, I do. The way I acted when you were just trying to help…” A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he looked away, his lips pressing together and stopping his flow of words. He shook his head, hoping to clear the images from his mind. “But you were right; I didn’t do any of those things.” </p>
<p>She dropped the flowers on the table and reached for him, pulling him into a solid hug. “Of course you didn’t.” Her palms felt hot on his back, and she dug her fingertips into his uniform jacket leaving pressure points on his skin. His hands settled on her hips. </p>
<p>“But I remember it all; it feels like I did.” He felt her body tense, felt the momentary tightening of her arms around his shoulders, and he brought a hand to her hair. It was cool and silky, and he threaded his fingers through the curls. He rested his cheek against her temple. “I should never have yelled at you like that. You were only trying to help, and I…” </p>
<p>“And you had a normal reaction.” She pulled back and smiled at him. “Tom, believe me, I know what it’s like to lose your temper even when you’re trying hard to keep it in check. I’ve done or said a few things when I’ve been angry that I wished I could take back.” </p>
<p>He snorted. “Well, when you get frustrated, it’s usually justified, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” </p>
<p>“And you don’t even have any Klingon DNA to use as an excuse.” Her mouth quirked and one eyebrow rose in a question. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten yet today,” she said.</p>
<p>“I had some coffee this morning,” he confirmed. She snorted. “But, if you’re still offering that pizza…?” </p>
<p>Her eyes went warm as her expression softened. “Find a vase for my flowers,” she instructed. </p>
<p>She moved toward the replicator and ordered their dinner as Tom found a vase and carried it and the roses to the bathroom. He filled the vase with water and placed the flowers in it, then turned and headed back toward the eating area. It had been too easy, he decided. Shouldn’t he be grovelling for her forgiveness? Or doing some sort of penance? </p>
<p>“Stop,” she ordered. He froze halfway across the living room. She had placed the steaming pizza on the table, and was standing there beside it, observing him. “Stop thinking about it.”</p>
<p>He sighed. “I didn’t just lose my temper, B’Elanna, I screamed at you like… like a lunatic. I was this close to throwing something at you.” He raised his free hand, fingers and thumb pinched almost closed.</p>
<p>“Do you still feel that way now?” </p>
<p>His brow wrinkled in confusion. “No.” </p>
<p>“Good. That’s my last vase and I like my flowers; I don’t want them to die.” She sighed, and took the vase from him and placed it on the table, then closed her hands around his. “Look. I’m not a psychologist, and I’m more comfortable fixing machines than emotions, but you don’t deserve to be punished, Tom. You didn’t do anything wrong. None of you did.” He opened his mouth to object but she cut him off. “Yes, you lost your temper and snapped at me when I was only trying to help. Believe me, it’s nothing I haven’t done to you or Harry or Chakotay. And you’ve always forgiven me. Why do you find it so hard to believe that I’d forgive you?” </p>
<p>Tom closed his eyes as emotion washed over him. He was suddenly exhausted; probably too tired to eat despite the enticing aroma of pepperoni and melted cheese. He pulled her into a close hug and rested his cheek against her hair as she moulded her body against his. “Thank you,” he said softly.</p>
<p>She pulled back and cupped his cheek. “What do you say we eat that before it gets cold,” she nodded toward the pizza, “then go back to your quarters and watch that episode of <em>The Untouchables</em> on the television?”</p>
<p>“The one with <i>Al Cay-pone</i>?” Tom teased. He couldn’t help but grin at her scowl. She pulled away slightly, and he tugged her close again. “How about a cartoon instead?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” B’Elanna agreed. “You supply the popcorn, I’ll bring the beer.” </p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. FANTASY - DEADLINES</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: If you haven’t read prompt #10, you can backtrack and do so. It’s finally posted.  If you have, please continue with #28. </p>
<p>I can’t think of a more make-or-break hard deadline than a depleted oxygen tank.</p>
<p>*** </p>
<p>In his fantasies, she loves him. She smiles at him, and when her eyes catch his they hold a promise for later, when they’re both off duty. </p>
<p>He’d been intrigued by her for longer than he cared to admit, curious about her for longer than that. As they’d grown closer and, with Harry’s tutelage, become friends, he’d begun to desire her. He wasn’t ready to admit that he was in love. He simply knew that he was happier when they spent time together, just the two of them, and that he looked forward to the weekly senior staff meeting if she was going to be there. Butterflies in his belly and his skin sparking sensation when she sat across from him smiling a hello or sharing a ‘can you believe that?’ roll of her eyes when someone stated something outlandish or, worse, obvious. </p>
<p>He knew that at odd moments of the day his brain came back to her and he would wonder what she was doing. And that, if she wasn’t in the mess hall when he and Harry arrived for a meal, he was disappointed. That he felt deflated if she cancelled on him. That he sometimes ached for her. </p>
<p>He had it bad. He wondered if anyone could tell. Most of the time, he didn’t care if they could. </p>
<p>They’d been working on the programme for a couple of weeks. He’d stumbled across it clearing out old data, shifting unused, preloaded programmes from the frontal memory buffer because he had an idea for a holonovel that would take up a lot of memory. It was a pain in the ass to transport it from the larger, archived library to the main memory every time he wanted to work on it. He’d appointed himself the holoprogramme <i>librarian</i>, and any programmes that had sat inactive or unfinished for six months or more, he wanted to shift to the archives: still accessible but out of the way. The programme had intrigued him because she didn’t usually run holonovels, and the file looked too big, had too much data, to be a simple exercise programme. </p>
<p>When he’d asked her about it, she’d been embarrassed, then defensive, then pretended that it didn’t matter. He’d watched her expression shift and change as emotions passed behind her eyes. When he’d asked if he should go ahead and delete it, they’d flared with uncertainty. With heat. He’d accused her of writing an Orion Slave Boys programme, just to watch her purse her lips and glare at him. In the end, she’d shown him. It was a Klingon programme to celebrate the Day of Honour. Part workout, part historical record, it brought together a gloomy cave setting with stiff, stereotypical Klingon characters demanding that the player ‘prove their honour’. It was… boring. Flat. Disappointing. But looking at her expression, defiant and slightly embarrassed, he’d known that it was important to her. </p>
<p>He talked her into allowing him to help her with it. </p>
<p>He’d taken over. It had made sense, really. He was better at mood and atmosphere anyway, and if the Day of Honour was supposed to be a test, how could her honour truly be assessed if she knew what was coming? Like knowing the ending to the <i>Kobaishi Maru</i> test before you’d taken it, he’d reasoned. He’d wanted to please her. He’d wanted to surprise her. But mostly, he’d wanted to honour that part of her that she’d struggled with for as long as he’d known her. With the care he’d taken with the programme, he’d tried to do the holiday, and her, justice. Hours and hours of his free time spent researching and writing and programming in order to be done on time. Anticipation of her reaction to his gift a writhing knot in his belly, lightning on his skin. </p>
<p>He’d met the hard deadline with a day to spare, but in the end she hadn’t even finished running it.</p>
<p>He’d been so angry, disappointed; so frustrated with her. He’d almost—<i>almost</i>—told her that she was acting like a coward. And after he’d stormed out of her quarters full of bruised ego and righteous indignation he’d paused, and breathed, and reconsidered. But he had been the one too cowardly to turn around and go back to her and apologize. </p>
<p>In his fantasies, she loved him. </p>
<p>She would push her fingers through his hair as she kissed him, caress his cheek, scrape her teeth along his jaw. They spent their evenings together ensconced in his quarters, or hers, curled up together after dinner on the couch, or in bed with their limbs entwined. They played holodeck programmes together, and shared meals in the mess, and kissed goodbye in front of the turbolift before they parted and went their separate ways, her to engineering and him to the bridge.</p>
<p>::<i>Warning. Oxygen level at one hundred four millibars</i>::</p>
<p>In his dream, she loved him. </p>
<p>Her hair was longer and curling around her shoulders, and she was wearing a simple dress that skimmed her body and fluttered around her legs as she walked. She was moving toward him through an open field, the light of an alien sun glinting off her hair painting it in reds and burnished golds and rich chocolate. Her skin glowed, and her eyes shone with a warmth that was just for him. She was breathtakingly beautiful. And she was his. </p>
<p>She loved him.</p>
<p>Her voice woke him. </p>
<p>::<i>Warning. Oxygen level at eighty seven millibars</i>::</p>
<p>I was having a dream, he said. I’m glad the last thing I’ll see is you… </p>
<p>Exhaustion pulling at him, enticing him to close his eyes and sink into the warmth of sleep. Despair in knowing that he’d never hold her again, or feel the heat of her skin on his, or touch her like he did in his fantasies. Never kiss her again like he had in that cave half a lifetime ago…</p>
<p>She’d always been too hard on herself.</p>
<p>::<i>Warning. Oxygen levels at seventy one millibars.</i>::</p>
<p>The truth about what? he asked, his mind reflecting on the certainty that truths came in many shades, as individual as the people who held them. The truth hadn’t always been his friend; but neither had a lie. </p>
<p>In his fantasies, she loved him. In reality, it was a pitiable truth, told to him too late. Regret made him feel heavy even as he floated in vacuum. She’d picked a terrible time to tell him.</p>
<p>He should have kissed her in the mess, when they’d tussled over the PADD with the Vulcan romance novel. </p>
<p>He should have written that steamy love scene, just for them. </p>
<p>He should have insisted on an intimate dinner as her forfeit when she’d lost their bet, rather than the Klingon workout programme. </p>
<p>He should have shown her just how warm he could make her in that frozen habitat, or at least held her hand in the resort programme when they’d made up after they were back on <i>Voyager</i>. </p>
<p>He should have turned around and gone back to her quarters and apologized, after they’d argued this morning. </p>
<p>He pulled her closer and closed his eyes, waiting, counting each breath, wondering how many they had left before their oxygen was gone. Another deadline, but this one much more hard and unforgiving. </p>
<p>He’d thought the captain’s voice in his ear was a memory. An auditory hallucination brought on by hypoxia and regret. “We’re here,” he said, his voice cracking, gloved fingers tightening on B’Elanna’s suited shoulders. “We’re here,” he murmured, his words barely more than a whisper of breath. He saw <i>Voyager</i> reflected in her helmet’s faceplate, saw stars shining in the inky blackness, the shimmer of the transporter beam as it swirled around them and swallowed them. It felt unreal and, just before he lost consciousness, he wondered if he’d dreamed it all. </p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. HIGH SCHOOL - INCLUDED</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: I like to draw from more than one prompt list when I do these things. It’s been too long, so I don’t remember where I found the second list, but I’ve been surprised and delighted by how well they’ve married. </p>
<p>This one didn’t come easy even though I had the idea as soon as I read the prompt back in August. I guess I just prefer not to remember high school. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Through experience, understanding is created. Thus, according to Kant, concepts of understanding have their basis in that experience. In his work, <i>Critique of Pure Reason</i>, Kant tells us that ideas are concepts of reason, and therefore do not correspond to possible objects of experience. To Kant, reason is associated with this priori knowledge and as such, within Kant’s view, metaphysics…” </p>
<p>B’Elanna’s eyes closed, and she allowed them to stay that way. She fought her rising restlessness and breathed, just like the school counsellor had told her to do. It wasn’t helping. She felt like a coiled spring. Like a warp plasma mix that was running too hot and was about to explode. She’d stopped taking notes several minutes ago. Everything that Doctor Stonak was saying was in the outline that he’d handed out at the beginning of class, so there was no point. She was slumped in her seat, her elbow on her desk, cheek resting on her closed fist, her limp pose belying her mounting agitation. She fought the urge to scream her frustration. She couldn’t wait to get out of his boring lecture! </p>
<p>There were only a few more minutes left in class, then she had gym class. She bounced one leg, trying to burn off a little of her restless energy. Her knee hit the underside of the desk with a loud <i>clang!</i> and she jerked upright, instantly alert, and glanced around. </p>
<p>Someone snickered. Barbie Allen turned her head and looked at her, one perfect eyebrow raised in mock startlement, her blue eyes round. B’Elanna felt a flush of embarrassment, then anger pushed up from her belly as the other girl looked her up and down and dismissed her with a smirk. </p>
<p>Doctor Stonak glanced toward her, but he didn’t pause his lecture. “...set of universal moral principles generally referred to as Kantian ethics. Similarly, Kiri-kin-tha of Vulcan states in their <i>First Law of Metaphysics</i>, derived from the teachings of Surak of Vulcan, that ‘Nothing unreal exists’.” </p>
<p>The buzzer sounded indicating that class had ended, and the students started to  shift in their chairs, gathering their PADDs and personal items. B’Elanna stood and jammed her PADD into her backpack and hooked her jacket from the back of the chair. She shoved it in with her hip.  </p>
<p>“A moment.” Their teacher held up a hand and they settled. “For next class, read pages thirty-two to eighty-five inclusive, of <i>The Teachings of Surak,</i> and familiarize yourselves with Kant’s twelve categories, referred to as his pure concepts of understanding. There will be a quiz.” </p>
<p>Several students groaned. </p>
<p>“Ms. Torres, I would like to speak with you in my office at the end of the day. Class is dismissed.” </p>
<p>“What?” B’Elanna had already taken a step toward the door; the gymnasium was at the other end of the spralling school campus and she still had to change into her track gear. “But, I didn’t do anything.” </p>
<p>Barbie bumped her shoulder into B’Elanna’s back as she moved past her. “Someone’s in trouble,” she sing-songed to her friends. They all laughed. B’Elanna’s hands balled into fists as she turned to glare at the group of girls, swallowing the urge to slam Barbie to the floor and step on her throat!</p>
<p>“We will discuss the matter in my office, Ms. Torres. I will see you one hour.” He consulted a PADD, dismissing her.</p>
<p>B’Elanna stood there for a moment, wanting to demand he tell her what she’d done, but the next group of students were starting to file into the room and if she didn't get a move on, she’d have to sprint to gym class. Her jaw clenched and she blew out a frustrated breath. She hiked her backpack onto her shoulder and pushed her way out of the classroom.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>She rushed through a sonic shower and changed back into her regular clothing. She’d beaten her best time in the one hundred meters, and was still feeling the buzz of speed: like she had sprouted wings and was flying above this barren rock of a planet, propelling herself toward the sun. When she was running, she could shake off all the bullshit and monotony of school, forget about everything that made life here horrible. Pretend she was someone else.</p>
<p>It was a nice idea, but it was a fantasy. She wasn’t going to sprout wings and fly, and no matter how fast she ran, she was stuck on Kessik with stuck-up bitches like Barbie Allen.  </p>
<p>She’d thought about trying to contact her father; on her next birthday, she would be considered an adult according to Human laws. Maybe, if she could track him down, he would offer her an option that didn’t include staying on this piece of shit rock wasting her life away like her mother was doing. Maybe he would be glad to hear from her. She knew how she would do it, too: her uncle Carl had been a miner or an engineer, or something, for a consortium on the Federation outpost on Tesnia. She could contact him, and if he wasn’t there any longer surely they’d have employee records that would help her track him down. And he could get in contact with her father… </p>
<p>A shriek of laughter from a group of girls gathered in front of the sinks pulled her out of her thoughts. They were primping in front of the mirror, reapplying makeup and fixing their hair before they left the school grounds. Not that there was anywhere to go. B’Elanna had grown up with them—she’d grown up with all of them—but they weren’t friends. Aside from Joel, who had left last year when his parents took a job on Cignus Minor, and Paolo, she didn’t have any friends. </p>
<p>The sonic shower had made her curly hair even poofier than usual and she quickly wound it into a French braid. One of the girls broke from the others and came up to her as she was securing the ends with a clip.</p>
<p>“Hi, B’Elanna.” </p>
<p>She looked up to see Carrie Post standing beside her with a wide smile. </p>
<p>“How can you do that without even looking in a mirror?” she asked. She was looking at B’Elanna’s hair.</p>
<p>B’Elanna shrugged. “I just can.” She shoved her gym shorts and tshirt into her bag. </p>
<p>Carrie gestured to the group of girls across the room. “We’re heading over to Cochrane’s Gorge to go for a swim. Do you want to come with us?”</p>
<p>“I…” She searched Carrie’s expression for some give-away, some hint that would prove that she was luring B’Elanna into some sort of trap. She didn’t have a suit with her; were they planning on swimming in their underwear? She thought of the ridges on her mother’s feet and down her spine, and her own slight spinal ridges that started below her ribcage and ended at her coccyx. Were Carrie and her friends hoping to see just how <i>Klingon</i> she was under her clothing? She was wondering how to gracefully decline without sounding defensive when she remembered that she had the perfect excuse. “I can’t,” she said, “Doctor Stonak wants to see me.” </p>
<p>“Oh.” Carrie shrugged. “Well, if you want to meet us after, we’ll be there.” The other girls swept Carrie up as they headed for the door, a cheerful, laughing group in brightly coloured clothing. </p>
<p>“Okay,” B’Elanna said. </p>
<p>“Bye, B’Elanna,” Carrie said, then they were gone, their voices echoing behind them. </p>
<p>B’Elanna waited until the corridor was quiet before she grabbed her bag and left the change room. The teachers’ offices were located in the central section of the building behind the main office, and it only took a few minutes for her to reach Doctor Stonak’s. She waited in the open doorway for a moment, watching him as he read a PADD. He didn’t appear to notice her; so much for superior Vulcan hearing, she thought. </p>
<p>“You wanted to see me?” She tried to make her voice sound even, tried to keep the accusation out of her tone, like the counsellor had suggested, but she couldn’t help feeling resentful. He’d singled her out in front of everyone; they had all had stared at her!</p>
<p>“Yes, Ms. Torres, come in.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. </p>
<p>B’Elanna glanced around the small office, surprised that her mother wasn’t there. “My mother isn’t…?” Maybe she was on her way. She wouldn’t be happy about being pulled out of work early. </p>
<p>“This will concern your mother at some point, Ms. Torres, but I see no reason to involve her until after we’ve spoken.”</p>
<p>B’Elanna remembered the smirk Barbie had sent her way, and a justifiable anger swelled inside her and burst out. “Whatever she told you, she’s lying!” Frustration made her voice sound whinier than she’d intended. </p>
<p>“Your mother?” </p>
<p>“No… I…” </p>
<p>“Sit, please.” </p>
<p>She dropped her bag on the floor and slumped into the chair, her features drawn into a wary, confused frown, resentment still sparking in her gut. </p>
<p>He propped his elbows on his desk and brought his hands together, fingers pointed, palms touching. He studied her over the tent of his fingers. “I have been reviewing your student record. Were you planning to return for a fifth year, beylana?”</p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>That hadn’t been at all what she’d been expecting him to say. She’d already taken all of the advanced placement classes in maths and sciences, and unless she suddenly developed a desire to study psychology or archaeology or Bolian literature, there was no point. In fact, she couldn’t wait to get her diploma and never have to walk through the doors of this fucking school again. She hadn’t answered his question. “No,” she said.</p>
<p>He nodded politely. “What are your plans?” </p>
<p>She shrugged. “I thought I’d go to the ‘tech and take the intro engineering course.” </p>
<p>“I see.” His head tilted infinitesimally to the left. “So you haven’t considered studying off-world?” </p>
<p>She rolled her eyes. “My mother wants to send me back to Qo’noS.”</p>
<p>“You have no desire to attend school on the Klingon homeworld?” he asked.</p>
<p>She huffed a breath. “No. I had more than enough of Klingon stuff when we visited Boreth five years ago.” </p>
<p>“I see.” He tilted his head very slightly to the right this time. “And does your mother approve of your plan to attend the technical college here on Kessik?” </p>
<p>B’Elanna shrugged and lifted her chin. “I can make my own decisions about my future. I don’t need to ask permission.” </p>
<p>“Still, you may find your mother’s council valuable.”</p>
<p>“My mother thinks that being an <i>honourable warrior</i> is all that’s important. It’s stupid.”</p>
<p>“You are referring to the Rite of Ascension? Did you complete the ceremony when you were on Boreth?” </p>
<p>“No.” She hunched her shoulders, pulling away from the question, and set her mouth in a scowl. “She wanted me to but I refused.” Why was he asking her all this stuff, she wondered. As if he even cared what she did after she graduated. He wasn’t even her Academic Advisor. “I don’t need to go through some archaic ceremony to know that I’m old enough to make my own decisions! It’s all meaningless anyway. It’s just…” Backward. Primitive. “Such a cliche,” she muttered. </p>
<p>He gifted her with a slight nod. “Ritual can be a necessary tool to build a link to your heritage. Especially when you live far from your own people.” </p>
<p>She wondered what <i>ritual</i> Doctor Stonak might perform in the privacy of his home so he felt more Vulcan. </p>
<p>“In your last paper, I found your argument on the irrationality of terraforming and colonizing barron worlds intriguing.” </p>
<p>He’d given her a good grade on the paper, and she felt a swell of cautious pride at the remark. “If we can’t live within our natural territory, what gives us the right to move out into space? We’ll just eventually reach a point where we want to spread out again,” she argued. “Why should we be allowed to do that?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps because we are the dominant species in the galaxy,” he countered. </p>
<p>“But that doesn’t give us the right to dominate other worlds. Or other life forms,” she answered. </p>
<p>He nodded. “Of course not. So, you believe that sentient life should stay on their planet of origin and not explore space?” </p>
<p>“No, I…” She paused, assessing him, wondering again why he was even bringing up a paper she’d written months ago, back at the beginning of the school year. She was keenly aware that she, a half-Klingon, was having this philosophical argument with her Vulcan teacher while they both lived in a predominantly Human mining colony in the middle of nowhere. “I just don’t think that anyone has the right to claim something, some place, just because they got there first.” </p>
<p>“As you stated in your essay. But you can have no problems with immigration among the settled planets.” </p>
<p>“I guess not. As long as no one is trying to take it from the native inhabitants. I mean, there are a lot of planets with diverse populations,” she shrugged, “and if people are unhappy where they are or there’s some sort of ecological disaster, of course they need to go somewhere else.” </p>
<p>“Have you ever considered going ‘somewhere else’, beylana? Are you happy to remain on Kessik?”</p>
<p>The question startled her. No, she wasn’t. In fact, she was miserable here, but she figured she was stuck, at least until she got a trade. She hadn’t planned beyond getting an Engineering degree and seeing where it would take her, offworld. “Not really,” she said truthfully.</p>
<p>He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Are you aware that the Starfleet Academy entrance exam will be administered on Cestus III in three months’ time?” <br/>B’Elanna tensed as something fluttered in her belly. “Surely you saw the notices about the Academy posted on the school’s bulletin board.” </p>
<p>She had, but she’d dismissed them; it had never even occurred to her to travel to Earth, let alone to join Starfleet. The school had sent home a notice as well, but as far as she was aware her mother hadn’t even read it. She hadn’t either. Her mother would have a fit at the idea!</p>
<p>“You would be required to write a preliminary test before being considered to sit the entrance exam,” he explained, “though I doubt that you would find it difficult. The entrance exam, however, would require months of intense study. I should note that only the students with the highest scores are accepted into the Academy. Merely passing the exam does not guarantee you a place.” He studied her in silence for a moment before he continued. “You have a uniquely logical mind, beylana. Precise, intuitive. You employ linear thought but also grasp concepts and marry theories that most of the other students your age do not. I believe that you would thrive in the environment that a Starfleet Academy education would offer you. And the discipline you would consequently learn at the Academy would serve to focus your thoughts. You could make a considerable contribution to the science of engineering, should you choose to employ your talents in a more…” he paused for a moment, “fruitful environment than the one here, on Kessik.” </p>
<p>The compliment was too broad, too big, for her to completely grasp. He thought she was smart, and that she had talent. That, in the right programme, she could be successful, whatever that meant. But he also thought that she should go to the Starfleet Academy. On Earth. “I’m not sure I’d fit in, in Starfleet,” she said. From the group of things he’d touched on, it was the easiest one to grasp. </p>
<p>“Civilian students also study at the Academy,” he said, “though those places are usually reserved for professionals who chose to extend their education to new branches of study.” </p>
<p>She hadn’t even finished high school and he was talking to her about Graduate programmes? On Earth. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “But Earth is mostly Human. And I’m a Klingon.” She didn’t exactly get along with the other kids on the small, mostly Human, colony here on Kessik; moving to a world with billions of Humans sounded like a very bad idea. </p>
<p>“Which is precisely why I suggested you apply to the Academy. It accepts students from every world within the Federation. You would encounter people from dozens of species. But to your point, Lieutenant Worf is a Klingon and he distinguished himself at the Academy. I have been informed that he has done exceptionally well on the <em>Enterprise</em>, the crew of which also is comprised of ‘mostly Humans’.” </p>
<p>“I don’t know.” The thought of leaving home and going so far away to study was terrifying. But it was also enticing. Exhilarating. Tempting. </p>
<p>“Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, Ms. Torres. The very basis of Vulcan philosophy, and one that Starfleet upholds through their diversified cadet population. And though you are partly Klingon,” he inclined his head in a nod, “you are also partly Human. I will assist you to prepare for the exams, if you wish.”</p>
<p>It was a huge offer; almost overwhelming. “I’d need to think about it,” she said. </p>
<p>“Of course. You can discuss the idea with your mother, and we will discuss your thoughts next week. In the meantime,” he handed her a PADD, “here is a reading on the history of the Federation that you will want to review. It goes into more detail than anything you might have previously studied.” B’Elanna took the proffered PADD by reflex, but Doctor Stonak wasn’t done. “You will also find a brochure on the Starfleet Academy detailing its history and the faculties of study available both on Earth and at satellite campuses across Federation space.” </p>
<p>“I… thank you,” she said. </p>
<p>“Come see me on Monday, after classes,” he replied. “I expect you to have an answer then. Good evening.” </p>
<p>“Bye.” She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder then headed for the exit. The school grounds were empty, the other students having left half an hour ago. She turned at the school gates and started to walk toward home. </p>
<p>Before her father had left them, she hadn’t really noticed that they didn’t fit in. Afterward, as the only Klingons in the colony, it had been obvious. Her mother had taken a leave of absence from her job and packed their bags, and they’d moved to <i>Qo’noS</i> to be with her extended family. It had been a disaster. Her aunts and uncles were loud and aggressive, and they’d frightened her, and her cousins had been boisterous and cruel with their questions about her cranial ridges and her absent father. Being enrolled in the Federation school hadn’t helped. Eventually, they had moved back to Kessik and her mother had slid back into her job at the surveying company, right back where they’d started. They’d been assigned new living quarters but the ghost of her absent father had haunted them, anyway.</p>
<p>Recently, as she began to think about her own future, she’d wondered why her mother had stayed in that dead end job on this hunk of rock in the middle of nowhere, though the alternative—staying on <i>Qo’noS</i> or another planet in Klingon space—wasn’t something that B’Elanna had wanted to contemplate. As out of place as she felt here in the only real home she could remember, and as awkwardly as her classmates sometimes treated her, her Klingon cousins and the other Klingon children had been worse. They hadn’t said anything outright, but she knew, she could tell, that they thought she was a freak, impure. Less than. </p>
<p>But just maybe she could find a place in Starfleet. As absurd as the notion of herself in a uniform, maybe one day in charge of her own engine room on a starship, sounded, maybe she could fit in there. After all, a uniform was meant to make everyone feel like they were part of a larger whole, right? Cogs in a machine. The machine didn’t work if the parts didn’t fit together.</p>
<p>She grinned as anticipation swelled inside her, then laughed out loud when she could no longer contain her excitement. She didn’t need to discuss it with her mother; she was going. If she passed the test, and Doctor Stonak had as good as said that he believed she would, and was offered a spot at the Academy, she was going. </p>
<p>She walked faster until she broke into a run, her backpack slapping against her back each time her foot hit the compacted dirt. And each time she pushed off the hard ground, she felt like might take flight, rise into the sky and break free of everything that kept her bound to this piece of shit backwater planet. She saw her future, glorious and shining, and she ran toward it.</p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. JOY - CHANGE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: Since I’ve already done Miral’s birth, this seemed to fit.</p>
<p>Let’s just pretend that the costume department knew what they were doing from the outset and Lieutenant, jg. Tom was given the right pips to begin with and forget about the one gold, one black/two solid gold pips s1 fiasco, okay? </p>
<p>Set the morning after the end of Caretaker, pt 2, which may or may not put it at the beginning of Parallax depending on how quickly you think they got Voyager all fixed up and shiny again.</p>
<p>*** </p>
<p>Tom set his sonic toothbrush on the shelf, rinsed his mouth and spat. He straightened and studied his reflection in the mirror. He angled his head, first one way then the other, checking his sideburns for a third time to make sure they were regulation, then he picked up his comb and ran it through his hair, smoothing it into place. He tugged on his uniform jacket, straightening it, then pulled the fastener so it was in line with the lower bar of his comm badge. He looked ship-shape. The perfect Starfleet officer. Almost. His clothing was perfect, boots shined, not a speck of lint in sight, but he wasn’t quite in uniform. </p>
<p>Light glinted off two small, round metal objects sitting on the shelf next to his comb. He picked them up and weighed them in his hand. So light to carry so much weight. He closed his fist around them and sighed. When the captain had told him yesterday that she was promoting him to Lieutenant, he’d been surprised, shock freezing him for a moment before reflex forced him to smile. His own inner asshole was responsible for the quip about a bodyguard but he hadn’t been lying when he’d admitted to being speechless at her announcement that she was reinstating his rank. Her hand was cool and dry, her grip firm as she shook his hand before she escorted him to the door. And he’d beaten down that thrill, that flush of warmth and pride that he’d felt knowing that she was putting her trust in him. Knowing that he’d earned his place on the ship. </p>
<p>Chakotay had halted him on his way back to the conn and handed him his pips as he’d come up the stairs and walked onto the bridge, and he’d attached them to his collar himself once he’d sat down. His stomach had fluttered just a bit as he’d lowered his hands back to the conn display and checked the readings. What if he’d forgotten...everything? What if merely been lucky so far, and there was something new about <i>Voyager</i> that he hadn’t learned? What if he couldn’t do it? He’d glanced behind him at Harry, so young he was still shiny, and held his breath for a moment before exhaling. Harry may have felt confident when he’d walked onto the ship two weeks ago, but that feeling had disappeared once they’d been pulled halfway across the galaxy. But observing him, you wouldn’t know it. If Harry could fake it, so could he. </p>
<p>He blinked at his reflection, pulling himself back to the present. His fingers were cold against his throat as he attached the pips to his collar. His combadge chimed. </p>
<p>“<i>Ensign Kim to Lieutenant Paris. I’m already in the messhall. Are you coming?</i>”</p>
<p>One more check in the mirror then he walked out of the bathroom tapping his combadge to reply. “I’m just heading out the door, Harry. Be there in five minutes.” He grabbed a PADD from his desk on the way by, then strode out of his quarters with his head high and his back straight as he headed for the mess. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Harry had already claimed a table and was tucking into his breakfast by the time Tom got his tray. They were eating emergency rations, saving power for operating ship’s systems rather than the food replicators. The ship had taken heavy damage when the Caretaker had pulled them into the Delta Quadrant, and then again from the firefights with the Kazon. The list of needed repairs was long. </p>
<p>He hoped that engineering was on it, and that <em>Voyager</em> had enough spare relays, and isolinear chips, and extra gelpacks to manage repairs. Unfortunately, <i>Voyager’s</i> mission to track down Chakotay’s ship had been hurried, and they’d left Deep Space 9 without a full complement of supplies or crew, engineering included. The loss of their chief engineer would make repairs, and keeping up morale, more difficult.</p>
<p>Not his problem, he reminded himself. He had enough on his plate learning the names of his staff. He’d need to take the next few days to assess their qualifications and experience, and assign supplemental training where it was necessary. Now that they were outside the friendly waters of Federation space, they had to be prepared for the next encounter with <i>unfriendly</i> aliens. Luckily, <i>Voyager</i> had a holodeck programme they used for practicing and testing flight maneuvers. Staadi had told him about the programme and, in the short time before they’d entered the Badlands, he’d passed the time by logging a couple of hours at the helm of the holographic bridge. He felt a pang of remorse at the thought of the beautiful Betazoid pilot who had fetched him from the Auckland Correctional Facility on Earth and brought him to Deep Space 9. A <em>what if</em> lost. He pushed the feeling aside and made his way to Harry’s table near the viewport, making the decision to book time for himself after shift. It wouldn’t do to hit the wrong button or key in the wrong sequence on the bridge. </p>
<p>Harry nodded at him in greeting as he claimed a chair. “You look pensive,” he said between mouthfuls of something grey and pasty looking. “Got something on your mind?” </p>
<p>“Nothing in particular,” Tom replied. “It’s going to be a busy day, that’s all.” </p>
<p>“I guess so,” Harry allowed with a shrug. “I just thought you’d be happier.” He gestured to Tom’s throat with his spoon. </p>
<p>It was all Tom could do to not raise a hand to his collar and touch them. In truth, he was. He wanted to grin, to enjoy that rush of pride and belonging that battered at his earned cynicism. But…He was only the chief conn officer because half of <i>Voyager’s</i> pilots were dead. He hadn’t earned his reinstatement not really,  and if they’d never been pulled into the Delta Quadrant, if he’d delivered on his promise to track down Chakotay and his crew and they were all sitting in the ship’s brig, he’d likely be back in Auckland right now without so much as a thank you. Captain Janeway didn’t really want <i>him</i>, disgraced former Starfleet officer and failed Maquis, she was just making the best of a bad situation. They all were.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, you can’t have a civilian in charge of the conn on a Starfleet ship.” How could he explain to Harry how odd it had felt to put on the uniform after two years out of it. After it and his rank had been stripped from him he’d thought it was over. Irreparably finished. It was like he’d jumped backward in time. He wanted to pretend that the years between hadn’t happened at all, that his place on <i>Voyager</i> was simply a continuation of his career in Starfleet, but he couldn’t. He wouldn't. </p>
<p>But still… It was hard not to feel <i>something</i>, hard not to feel that sweet anticipation that comes from a new challenge and your superior officer’s faith in you. </p>
<p>“Still,” Harry pushed, “the captain could have assigned you a Maquis rank bar instead.” </p>
<p>Tom huffed a laugh. “No, she really couldn’t have.” He glanced past Harry’s shoulder and surveyed the room. Maquis and Starfleet had separated into factions and nary the two did overlap. The Maquis crew had taken the tables in the aft end of the messhall, the Starfleet, forward. At least they were sharing the viewport, split down the middle, one long table for each. </p>
<p>Conversation was muted, and there was a palpable sense of gloom hanging over the room. A sense of desolation. Hesitancy. Grief. It was just starting to dawn on them that the life they’d known back home was over. Janeway had given a pretty speech yesterday, but he knew that their chances of coming across a wormhole that led back to the Alpha Quadrant were infinitesimal. They would die here, whether in the next fire fight with the Kazon, or from old age, they would never see familiar stars again. He glanced at Harry and his jaw tightened at the thought.</p>
<p>Harry raised a hand and waved, and Tom turned his head to see who he was greeting. B’Elanna Torres had come into the mess with Seska, another Maquis who had reasons of her own to hate him. B’Elanna paused, then sent Harry an awkward wave in reply before turning her back to them both and heading for the table of ration packs set up along the far wall of the mess. </p>
<p>Tom’s gaze followed Torres as she and Seska chose a table as far away from his and Harry’s as they could and still be in the same room. They’d met during his short stint in the Maquis and she’d loathed him on sight. It was possible that she didn’t remember meeting him. She certainly didn’t act like she remembered him, though he hadn’t forgotten her: gorgeous, fiery, and snappish. Once, after she’d torn a strip off of him for ‘flying like a maniac and blowing out their rear deflector’ when he’d flown too close to a plasma tower in the Badlands—a maneuver that had, in fact, <i>saved</i> the ship and crew from a Cardassian hunting party—he’d steered clear of her and her temper. She hadn’t seemed worth the trouble. In truth, the man he’d been a year ago hadn’t wanted to foster any relationships beyond bartering for a night’s entertainment, and he’d got the message loud and clear that she wasn’t interested, hot Klingon blood or no.</p>
<p>But he’d recognized her immediately when he’d first seen her, lying prone on a table in the Caretaker’s barn. He’d been mesmerized by her bare arms and shoulders, by the light glinting off her skin, and the absurdity of the realization that she must be naked beneath the thin blanket that had covered her. It hadn’t made any sense. And a thought had come to him, inappropriate and unwanted: he’d wondered about the texture of her skin, the scent of her hair. How she’d feel pressed against him. Then he’d blacked out, and reappeared in <i>Voyager’s</i> sickbay and discovered that a week had gone by and Harry was missing. When Chakotay had said that his crewman, Torres, was also gone, Tom hadn’t put it together. Surnames had been in short supply in the Maquis, and he’d known her simply as B’Elanna, Chakotay’s stunning, but ill-tempered, chief engineer. </p>
<p>She hadn’t appeared to have changed much in the year since he’d left the Maquis. Her hair was shorter, and she looked more guarded, more restrained. Likely, like the rest of the Maquis, she was still feeling her way, still trying to figure out where she stood in the new scheme of things. She was a good engineer, she’d kept Chakotay’s old klunker flying, and Janeway could do worse than putting her in charge of a shift under Joe Carey, engineering’s de facto chief. If Tom were really lucky, she’d be assigned to gamma shift and they’d hardly have to see each other. </p>
<p>Still… even ill and exhausted and filthy in those underground tunnels on Ocampa, she’d been beautiful. And she’d allowed him to help her, to pull her arm over his shoulder and curl his arm around her waist as they ran across the Ocampan desert. He remembered the heat of her, the softness and strength in her lean body as he hugged her close to his side, and he sighed. Talk about a <em>what if</em>.</p>
<p>He realized he was staring just as Seska looked up and glared at him. Her mouth curled into a cruel smile, then she turned away, dismissing him. She leaned toward B’Elanna and whispered something to her, and they both turned their heads and stared at him again. He ignored Seska, but he held B’Elanna’s gaze until she scowled and looked back down at her tray. A quick glance at Harry proved that he’d missed the whole exchange; his head was bowed as he fussed with his ration pack and napkin. </p>
<p>“So,” Harry said, “what do you think our chances are of finding another all-powerful alien who’d be willing to send us home?” </p>
<p>Tom huffed a laugh. “Probably as high as running into the one who brought us here.” </p>
<p>“Well,” Harry inclined his head in a sideways nod, “it happened once, it can happen again.” </p>
<p>“Sure,” Tom agreed. </p>
<p>“You done?” Harry asked. “You don’t want to be late on your first full day as a bridge officer, Lieutenant.” His smile was brief but there was warmth behind his eyes. </p>
<p>Tom swallowed a mouthful of tepid insta-coffee, then chucked his fork into the bag of ‘scrambled eggs with ham’. “Yeah. Starfleet can build starships that can traverse the universe but they can’t make a decent bag of rehydrated eggs,” he said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. </p>
<p>Harry laughed. “Maybe lunch will be better.” </p>
<p>“It can’t be worse,” Tom quipped. </p>
<p>They chucked their garbage into a reclamator and headed out the door on their way to the bridge and Tom felt it again: that swell of anticipation, that inner-pull of excitement, happiness. Pride. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and filled his lungs with contentment for just a moment. Everyone around him may be in mourning for the life they’d left behind, but he was glad that his was behind him. </p>
<p>The ‘lift doors parted and he made his way across the bridge. He nodded to Captain Janeway and Chakotay as he walked past them, and Chakotay looked up from the display between their seats to nod back. He tapped Culhane—or was it Baytart?—on the shoulder, and took his place at the conn with a ‘good morning, Lieutenant’. He scanned the readings by force of habit, noting their course and speed, the state of the shields, engine output. When he glanced up at the viewscreen and saw the stars streaking past at warp, he couldn’t help but smile. It was okay, no one could see him. He felt it; the thrill at being back where he belonge at the helm of a starship; the satisfaction in knowing that his captain believed in his abilities; the <i>rightness</i> of being part of a crew again. It was there, taking root and growing and swelling within him despite the melancholy the rest of the crew were feeling. Joy. He felt joy. </p>
<p>*****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED - OOPS!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: Once again, I pride myself on turning a prompt on its head. My only other idea of note for this prompt was Tom &amp; B’Elanna arguing over whether to plant flowers or vegetables in their raised garden bed, so consider yourselves lucky that you got this instead. </p>
<p>Loosely based on a true story. You may want to read my fictional story, SoSnI’oy Is Coming, by myself and Ariquel first to familiarize yourself with all the players. It’s sort of a prequel to this one.  </p>
<p>***** </p>
<p>B’Elanna floated in a netherworld of soft contentment, neither asleep nor fully awake. The baby still tugged at her nipple though not as lustily as a few minutes ago. He’d gained a kilo and a half at his last checkup, and the Doctor had pronounced him a ‘good eater’. He was, in fact, a little pig; her little piglet. Her <i>Suy’HomoywI’</i>. She smiled at that and glanced down at him. His eyes were closed as he sucked lazily, rhythmically swallowing breast milk. She’d been dozing, her mind drifting from tomorrow’s to-do list, to the letters (with photos) that she owed Harry and Admiral Janeway, to the Family Fun Day that was coming up at Miral and Ella’s school. </p>
<p>She let it all go and drifted, feeling a little like she did when she and Tom had hung in space ten years ago, believing that they were about to die before they could even begin a life together. She looked past him at Tom’s profile, relaxed in sleep. He’d plucked him from his cradle—Miral’s cradle—at his first wail of discomfort, had shushed him and changed his diaper, then placed him in the bed between them so B’Elanna could nurse him, and had promptly fallen back into a sound sleep. It had been six years since she’d been able to do that, she thought ruefully, since the last few months of her first pregnancy. She petted the baby’s downy head and traced his rounded cheek with a fingertip. The touch seemed to revive him, and he grunted and pulled hard on her nipple, gulping down the stream of milk. A little bit leaked from the corner of his mouth and dribbled across his chin, and B’Elanna smiled. Piglet, indeed. </p>
<p>A small, warm hand touched her arm and she craned her neck to look behind her. Miral stood at the side of the bed, her big brown eyes wide in the dim light. “Hey, sweetie. What’s wrong?” </p>
<p>“I had a bad dream.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna could see that she was clutching Floppy Bunny under her arm, a gift from Uncle Harry, Toby Too! having been put up on a shelf when rIq was born to keep him <i>safe</i> from the baby’s clutches. B’Elanna had assured her older daughter that her <i>SoSnI’oy</i> was very likely going to bring him his own stuffed targ when she arrived next week for a visit, but Miri’s concerns hadn’t been assuaged. Her reaction had puzzled B’Elanna. Miri had been thrilled with Ella when she was born, and had placed Toby Too! in her cradle and tried to interest her baby sister in all of her toys. But, with rIq, it was different. She didn’t seem jealous of the baby, and it was obvious that she loved him. An only child, B’Elanna had never felt the uncertainty that someone would try to appropriate her possessions, and Tom had confessed that as the youngest in his family, neither had he. But after a short discussion they had decided to indulge Miral’s proactive measures to keep her treasures safe, for now. They had helped Miri to gather her most precious possessions and put them up out of reach, assuming that with time she would take them down and play with them again. </p>
<p>“Can I come up?” Miri asked. Her voice was small, and she sounded almost apologetic. </p>
<p>B’Elanna smiled at her. “Come on.” Her right arm was curled around the baby, holding him to her breast, and B’Elanna twisted a little more and reached her left toward her oldest child, cupping her around the bum and hefting her onto the mattress. She was careful to not pull her nipple out of rIq’s mouth. He was sleeping again, and she didn’t want to risk waking him. Lonzak lifted her head and glared at them from the end of the bed. She flicked her tail, then stood and hopped toward Tom’s side. The cat curled into a ball at his feet.</p>
<p>Miri climbed over her mother and settled on the other side of her brother. She leaned toward him and kissed his head, then gave him a little pat before she settled back against Tom’s arm. She put her head on his pillow and watched the baby sleep. </p>
<p>B’Elanna brushed Miri’s hair from her forehead and smiled at her. “Do you want to tell me your dream?” she asked quietly.</p>
<p>Miri shook her head no, but spoke anyway. “Buster ran away.” Her chin quivered. </p>
<p>B’Elanna’s face puckered with sympathy, and she hugged her as best she could with the baby between them. “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. Is he on his bed?” Despite the fact that they shared a small bedroom, she and Ella had insisted that Buster and Nia, Ella’s pet targ, sleep in their room. The two targs had oversized pet beds on the floor between the girl’s beds, and if they were currently asleep on the living room couch, B’Elanna didn't want to know about it. </p>
<p>If—when, B’Elanna sighed inwardly—her mother brought them a live targlet for rIq, they would have to move. The little two-bedroom cottage was full to bursting as it was. There was no way it could stretch to house five people, a cat, a bunny, and <em>three</em> targs! A better argument for birth control, B’Elanna couldn’t imagine...</p>
<p>Miral nodded in answer to her mother’s question and pressed her forehead against her shoulder. “Good,” B’Elanna said, massaging her fingers through the little girl’s hair. She wanted to assure her that Buster would never leave her—targs were loyal companions—but she didn’t, just in case. She’d decided a long time ago that she wouldn’t fill her children with the same false assurances that she had heard as a child. She frowned, but then she let the thoughts of her own miserable childhood go. Her mother had done the best she could in a difficult situation, and she and her father had managed to carve out a semblance of a relationship since they’d reconnected seven years ago. It was more than nothing. She pulled the blanket up around Miri and smiled when she closed her eyes and snuggled into the covers. </p>
<p>She should put the baby back in his cradle, but she was warm and relaxed, remembering the many times Miri had climbed into their bed while she was pregnant with Ella. They’d indulged her because it felt good, and she didn’t mind having her here now. She wasn’t about to fall asleep with rIq in the bed, anyway, but his soft warmth lulled her. His head fell back against her arm and the nipple fell out of his mouth. She mopped a trail of milk from his cheek and smiled at him: her little porker. Eventually, being careful not to disturb Miral or the baby, she extricated her arm from around him and pulled herself up to sit on the bed. She tugged at her nightgown to cover her breast and plucked a cloth from the cradle, placing it on her shoulder. They’d moved it to her side of the bed in place of her nightstand for expediency’s sake since he was still waking twice in the night to nurse. When he woke again, around four, it would be her turn to see to him, and she would simply lift him out and put him at her breast. </p>
<p>This was the part that she hated. She gently scooped him from the mattress and tucked him onto her shoulder. He grunted, then sighed, blowing a bubble of milky spit against her throat. She waited a beat then hiked him a little higher and rubbed his back in a slow, firm circle, hoping to coax a burp out of him. Eventually, he obliged her, and she tucked him back into the cradle with only a small pang of loss, missing his soft, warm weight. She settled back under the covers and closed her eyes. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Mamma?” </p>
<p>B’Elanna woke with a start as she registered a small, hard object being pressed unforgivingly against her chest. </p>
<p>“Mamma, wake up.” </p>
<p>She raised a hand and wrapped her fingers around Ella’s fist. “What is it, honey?” she asked. Once, what now felt like a long time ago when they were newly married, B’Elanna had objected to Tom calling her honey, thinking being referred to by the name of a sweet, viscous liquid an odd choice of pet name. But Ella was sweet, and her dark gold hair conjured the image of honey, so the name seemed to fit. </p>
<p>“I had a oops.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna stifled a groan. If Miral was feeling a little uneasy about her place in the family now that rIq had arrived, Ella had appeared to backtrack. She’d potty trained early and easily, following her big sister’s example. But after his birth, she’d apparently decided that she wasn’t done with being the baby of family after all. </p>
<p>B’Elanna propped herself up on one elbow and glanced down at her younger daughter. She was clad in a tshirt and one sock and nothing else. Her bare bum shone in the moonlight coming through the window. B’Elanna glanced at the clock; it was three forty seven, and while she might have time to see to Ella then come back to bed before rIq woke for his early morning feeding, she might not. If she didn’t get him on the breast quickly after he woke, she ran the risk of him working himself up into a full-throated roar, and it always took ages to calm him down enough to form a proper latch. </p>
<p>“Just a sec,” B’Elanna said, decided. She leaned over and placed a kiss on Ella’s head, then twisted and reached past a sleeping Miral to shake Tom’s shoulder. “Tom,” she hissed. He woke with a grunt. </p>
<p>“Huh? Wha?” His sleepy tone belied his Starfleet training. Not that wet sheets were a reason to sound red alert. </p>
<p>“Ella,” B’Elanna said simply. </p>
<p>“Umfph,” Tom replied. </p>
<p>Ella bent and picked up Nia, who had followed her into the room, and shoved her onto the bed. The little targ squealed and grunted. B’Elanna pulled her legs up out of hoof reach, and Nia trotted toward the centre of the bed. She settled against Miral’s side with a contented <i>huff</i>. Ella then grasped the blankets and heaved herself up, climbing over B’Elanna to shuffle to the end of the bed. She petted a sleepy Lonzak and <i>smacked</i> a kiss on the top of the cat’s head. She stretched and swished her tail in irritation. Ella left the cat and crawled up Tom’s body until her little face was directly above his. “I had a oops,” she informed him. </p>
<p>rIq had started to fuss, likely due to the commotion. B’Elanna scooped up the baby and shifted closer to Miral, then laid him on the mattress while she freed her left breast. “Shhh,” she hushed him. Tom threw off the covers, and she felt him rise, then the mattress bounced a bit as Ella hopped up into his arms. </p>
<p>“Come on,” he said, “let’s go check out the damage.” </p>
<p>A glance over her shoulder confirmed that Miri was still sound asleep splayed on her back with one leg raised and her knee resting against B’Elanna’s ribs. B’Elanna focused her attention on her son. She smiled down at him as she felt her milk come in in a rush, and laughed quietly when she spied a thin line of milk and drool dribble down his chin despite his best efforts to  gulp it down. “<i>Suy’oywI’</i>,” she whispered to him. He stared at her, his dark eyes huge and serious beneath his cranial ridges. She grinned again; she couldn’t help it. </p>
<p>Miri shifted, rolling toward her, her head bumping between B’Elanna’s shoulder blades, one hand cupping B’Elanna’s arm. Love tightened her gut and seemed to squeeze her heart. She closed her eyes on a sigh and drifted. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>He was flying <i>The Lady Grey</i>, the old S-class shuttle that he’d learned to fly when he was still a kid, watching the vapor boil and roll off the viewport as he sliced through the clouds. He brought the small craft into a slow turn, sketching a wide arc around his destination as he gradually dropped altitude to land. Trees that had been little dots of dark green came into focus, and the playground equipment gradually grew to normal size as the shuttle made its final descent. They settled on the landing pad with a soft bump.</p>
<p>He’d intended only to drop Miri and Ella at school, then run to the Delta Quadrant to pick up a crate of leola root for Neelix (he’d warned him that the shuttle didn’t have a warp drive so it would take him about six hundred years, but Neelix had assured him that he wasn’t in a hurry and would wait), but he’d forgotten that it was free kitten day at the girls’ school, and he’d been roped into helping to match the kittens with the students’ orders. There was a cacophony of sound and movement as the kittens crawled around the tables set up in the front lobby of the school, mewling and grunting. He was plucking them up, trying to keep them from escaping out the doors. One tried to climb up his leg. </p>
<p>Seven was there too, and when she grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, he almost dropped one of the kittens he was holding. It squealed, then let out a grunt as he stuck it in a pocket of his old white and black flight suit. Seven was complaining that if they’d only used <i>Macro-Firm Excelsior</i>, and ported a spreadsheet to the larger PADD, there wouldn’t be any more mixups in the orders: they’d accidentally given a calico kitten to one of the kids who’d requested a ginger. Miral insisted they chose one with only one leg to compliment Lonzak, but as far as Tom could see, all the kittens had the usual four; they certainly were crawling around like they did.</p>
<p>“Tom.” </p>
<p>The dream faded and Tom floated to consciousness. “Huh? Wha?” he grunted. There was a small, warm body beside him, and he turned his head and saw a blur of dark, tangled hair. <i>One big kitten</i>, he thought...</p>
<p>“Ella.” </p>
<p>B’Elanna’s voice was low, but it served to dissipate the last of the dream. He glanced toward his wife, his gaze sweeping past their slumbering six-year-old, then looked toward the end of the bed. Ella was petting a reluctant Lonzak. Ella. Which meant… He closed his eyes and groaned, “Umfph.” </p>
<p>Hard knees and tiny hands pressed into his shinbones and muscles as Ella crawled up his body leaving spots of sensation just shy of pain along his legs. She deftly avoided his groin, but a knee landed in his gut. She rested her forehead against his, and her warm, moist breath fanned against his nose and cheeks. “Daddy, I had a oops.” </p>
<p>Light from the full moon spilled in through the window and cast one side of her face in silver highlights. Tom stared into her eyes, a copy of his own, and smiled tiredly at her. Careful not to bump Miri, he rolled her onto the mattress and climbed out of bed, then opened his arms to her. She had scrambled to her feet, knees bent, arms stiffly at her sides, hands balled into fists. Her arms shot upward, and she jumped into his arms. He caught her easily; at least her bare bum felt dry against his forearm, he thought. </p>
<p>It didn’t take long to sponge her down. He wiped her legs and bottom with a warm, wet cloth, then deftly dried her and found a clean pair of pyjamas. Stripping her bed and shoving the soiled sheets into the reclaimater took about a minute, but a search for clean sheets came up empty. In the end, he pulled the comforter over the bare mattress, found the small crib quilt that Kathryn Janeway had made for Ella’s baby shower, and spread it on top. Buster observed him from the comfort of Miri’s bed. </p>
<p>He turned. “Okay, sweet pea, into bed.” </p>
<p>She was gone. He checked the bathroom on the off chance that she was actually using the toilet, but no dice. She wasn’t in the kitchen or living room, either. He sighed. He shuffled back to his bedroom, though he wondered if he should even bother; the sun would be up in less than two hours. B’Elanna appeared to be sleeping, her arm curled protectively around rIq who, sated once more, was also asleep. Miral was curled against B’Elanna’s back snoring softly. Ella was in Tom’s own spot, mouth open, sleeping on her tummy, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. Nia and Lonzac took up the rest of the available space.</p>
<p>Tom sighed. He padded quietly to the bed and grabbed his pillow, then headed back to the girls’ room. He eyed Ella’s short, toddler bed, then shifted his gaze to the slumbering targ. “Shove over, Buster.” he said. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>B’Elanna woke to the sound of giggles. She reached behind her to grab at a flailing leg before it smacked her in the kidney. Her left shoulder felt overextended and she groaned as she shifted, trying to ease its stiffness. There was a warm ‘bump’ in the blankets. She opened her eyes and felt a momentary jolt of alarm as she saw that she’d fallen asleep with rIq still in the bed beside her, old wives tales of children being smothered as their parents rolled on top of them as they slept coming to mind. She studied him for a moment and couldn’t help but smile. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, and his mouth was pursed, jaw working as he suckled in his sleep. She glanced at the clock on the dresser and felt another sudden wave of panic: 08:07, they were late! Then she remembered that it was Saturday: no school. She tried to resist but lost the struggle, and reached to smooth rIq’s fluffy hair, which was sticking up in every direction. Tom had once said that he resembled a mad scientist from those old sci-fi serials that he and the girls loved to watch. Of course she woke him.</p>
<p>He squirmed and grunted, his face scrunching then relaxing as he blinked up at her. His eyes were a muddy colour, neither blue nor brown, and they’d decided to wait to see what colour they would turn rather than scan his dna. There were few surprises with modern medicine, though they’d sworn the Doctor to secrecy with this pregnancy and their baby boy had been a complete surprise. For no justifiable reason, she’d expected another girl.   </p>
<p>Ella shrieked, and one of them bumped against B’Elanna’s back, rocking her. “Okay,” she said, reaching behind her again and wrapping her arm around a squirming torso, Ella’s from the feel of it. “Time to get up.” There was bouncing and scrabbling behind her but she didn't bother to look. She scooped up the baby and checked his diaper, then crossed to the changing table. Which reminded her: “Both of you go pee then see if daddy has started breakfast,” she said. She didn’t smell coffee but it was possible that Tom was waiting until she made an appearance in the kitchen to replicate it. She hoped he’d let Buster and Nia out in the yard. </p>
<p>By the time she’d changed the baby and made her way to the kitchen, the girls were already at the table anticipating breakfast. Miri had a PADD in front of her, a comic book pulled up from the menu, and Ella was sitting with her legs folded under her—thankfully dry—bottom, bouncing up and down in her chair. Gusts of air forcefully escaped her lungs each time she sat. “Huh! Huh! Huh!” B’Elanna couldn’t help but laugh. Tom was nowhere in sight. Odd. </p>
<p>“Did you feed Connie?” she asked the room. Miri nodded.</p>
<p>“Good.” Feeding and cleaning the pet bunny was their job, but B’Elanna still felt compelled to make sure the tasks were done. “What do you want for breakfast?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Bann’a pan-<i>cakes</i>!” Ella shouted. </p>
<p>B’Elanna raised an eyebrow at Miri, who looked up and nodded again. It was easily done. She deftly transported the plates from the replicator to the table one at a time, her other hand curled protectively around the baby’s rump keeping him propped against her shoulder, then gave them each a drink. “I’ll be right back,” she said, eyeing Ella’s cup. Her daughter stuffed a forkful of pancake into her mouth and grinned. </p>
<p>Tom wasn’t in the small office, or on the porch, or in the yard. Neither were the targs. She padded down the hallway and stopped in the doorway to the girls’ bedroom. Tom was on his side asleep on Miri’s bed, one arm curled around a snoozing Nia with Buster stretched against his back. Nia’s head was tucked under Tom’s chin. Buster opened one eye and <i>huurrr’d</i> at her, then closed it again and snuffled as he relaxed back into the blankets. </p>
<p>B’Elanna snorted. They didn’t just need a bigger house, she realized, they needed a bigger bed. </p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. 1 - “No, come back!” - travel - friendly - fish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: Bonus content for anyone who’s stuck with me - the 3 Fictober prompts that I managed to finish before I packed it in &amp; deleted them from AO3. </p>
<p>A Fair Trade missing scene.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“No, wait! Come back! There’s been a mistake. You have to let us contact our ship!” Tom expelled a harsh breath and slammed the flat of his fists against the cell door. “Some vacation this turned out to be,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“I think you’re bad luck, Tom,” Chakotay deadpanned. “This is third time you’ve been arrested for murder in two years. As a travelling companion, you’re dangerous to be around.”</p>
<p>Tom snorted and turned toward him. “Maybe it’s the company I’m keeping,” he said. “You’re a wanted outlaw, yourself.” </p>
<p>Chakotay’s lips turned up in a smirk and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. He was sitting on the bunk, conserving his strength, but Tom was pacing like a caged…  ex con. He dragged his fingers through his hair and sighed. “And the people here seemed so friendly when we first met them.” </p>
<p>“I guess first impressions can be deceiving,” Chakotay said. </p>
<p>“Or bang on.” </p>
<p>The man they’d been accused of killing was the same one who had offered them a vial of narcotics when they’d first come aboard the station. Tom’s opinion of him hadn’t changed with his death. He heaved a frustrated sigh. </p>
<p>“Don’t worry, Tom. I spotted Neelix on the promenade when they arrested us. I’m sure he’s already informed the Captain of what happened. She won’t let them keep us here for long.”</p>
<p>Tom snorted. “This’ll be the fourth time in two years she’s got me out of prison.” </p>
<p>Chakotay merely nodded. It was a sore spot between them, one they’d left unaddressed: that Tom had been hand-picked by Janeway to help her track down Chakotay’s Maquis ship. That Tom had agreed to do it. </p>
<p>“You know, I had the oddest conversation with Neelix tonight, just before we beamed over here.” </p>
<p>“Oh? He has been acting a little odd lately. What was it about?” </p>
<p>Tom leaned against the cell wall and stared at his boots. “He said he’d heard I was in prison, before I was on <em>Voyager</em>. He asked me why.” </p>
<p>Chakotay tensed. He bent and rested his elbows on his knees, and shifted toward the edge of the bunk. “And what did you tell him?”</p>
<p>Tom considered lying—telling Chakotay that it was because he’d been stupid enough to join the Maquis and get caught on a simple supply run—just to see how he would react. But it had been a long time since he’d <em>poked the bear</em> just to hear it growl. His undercover stint to flush out Seska’s spy a year ago had put more pressure on their already tenuous professional relationship, one that they had finally repaired, and Tom didn’t have the energy or inclination to act like an asshole right now. He wasn’t that man anymore. He didn’t want to be that man ever again. </p>
<p>“I told him that I’d made a mistake then lied about it, and that my lie almost ruined my life. But you know, our present circumstances aside, if I hadn’t lied about the accident at Caldik Prime, I wouldn’t be here right now.”</p>
<p>Chakotay’s head tipped to one side as he considered him. “If you’d stayed in Starfleet, you’d be a full lieutenant by now. Maybe even a lieutenant commander.” </p>
<p>Tom felt the compliment in Chakotay’s comment, but he shook his head. “I wasn’t happy on the <em>Exeter</em>. I’m not sure I would have stayed in Starfleet long enough for another promotion.” He shrugged and pushed off the wall, and joined Chakotay on the cot. He sat, and leaned his back and head against the wall behind it. “But, since it looks like I’ll be making a career in Starfleet for the foreseeable future, I’m glad that it’ll be on <em>Voyager</em>, with our crew.”</p>
<p>Chakotay nodded. “We have some remarkable people. We were lucky.” </p>
<p>Tom snorted. It hadn’t felt like it at first. But as they got to know each other, got more comfortable with each other, they were starting to feel like a family. Neelix had planned a luau in the Resort programme for Saturday night. Tom hoped he wouldn’t miss it. Of course, with the two of them in jail, Neelix would likely postpone the festivities until they were released. </p>
<p>“It seems to me that you’re happy to be spending time with some people more than others,” Chakotay said cryptically. </p>
<p>Tom wasn’t sure he wanted to address that comment, but… “Oh?” he said. He knew what it was about. He turned his head and stared the man down, daring him to object to his burgeoning relationship with B’Elanna. </p>
<p>“Stand down, Tom. I think your friendship with B’Elanna and Harry has been good for all three of you. Without your example to steady him, Harry might not have done as well as he has under the pressure of being here, in the Delta Quadrant.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded. “And, B’Elanna?” Tension stilled him and put an edge in his tone. He knew that B’Elanna looked on Chakotay as a mentor and she valued his opinion; that once, she would have followed his advice. </p>
<p>Chakotay glanced at him. “She can take herself too seriously. Your interests show her that life isn’t all warp plasma and isolinear chips.”</p>
<p>Tom nodded. “You don’t mind that we’ve become… friends?” </p>
<p>“To be honest, I’m relieved. When we first came on <em>Voyager</em> and she saw you in that uniform, she was ready to kill you for betraying us.” </p>
<p>“There are days where I think she still feels the same way,” Tom quipped. Chakotay smiled at that. “If we get out of here,” Tom said, “I’m taking her to the luau.” Technically true, but not quite how he was implying. Not yet, anyway. In truth, he, B’Elanna, and Harry were all planning to meet up and go together.</p>
<p>“I hope you enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you there; I’m escorting the captain.” </p>
<p>“So, it doesn’t bother you that we’re spending more time together,” Tom asked. </p>
<p>Chakotay was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke Tom could tell that he had chosen his words carefully. “I’ll be honest, there was a time when I would have been. And I’m perhaps not as comfortable about this as I want to be. B’Elanna is a beautiful young woman.” </p>
<p>“So’s the captain,” Tom observed.</p>
<p>“True,” Chakotay nodded. “But Kathryn and I know where we stand with each other.”</p>
<p>Tom wondered about that cryptic statement. They had spent months alone together on a planet before the Doctor had devised a treatment for a virus they’d contracted. Months when they’d obviously grown closer. No one had learned just how <em>close</em> but Tom, and many others on the crew, had their ideas. After <em>Voyager</em> had returned for them, they’d been noticeably stiffer with each other, more proper, more <em> regulation</em>.</p>
<p>Chakotay was still talking, and Tom brought his attention back to him. </p>
<p>“Like I said, her friendship with you and Harry has been good for her. It’s been good to see her relax and have fun now and then.” </p>
<p>“But?” Tom asked.</p>
<p>“But… in my opinion, the incident with the Enarans a few months ago left her vunerable, left her thinking about what she might have been missing for the last two years, on <em>Voyager</em>.”</p>
<p>So, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed B’Elanna’s monk-like behaviour, Tom thought. He had heard rumours about her experiences when Mirell, the Enaran engineer, had implanted her memories into B’Elanna in the form of—so the gossip went—highly erotic dreams. He hadn’t been in the messhall when B’Elanna had accused another Enaran of helping to cover up a genocide on thier home planet. She hadn’t mentioned it to him, hadn’t wanted to discuss it, and instead had sought the privacy of her quarters in the aftermath. He’d tried pulling some information about it  from Harry, but he’d denied that she’d talked to him about it, either. But, obviously, she’s shared some of it with Chakotay. Tom tried very hard not to feel slighted or jealous about that.</p>
<p>“And you think, what?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I think, despite the fact that she believes she’s strong and guarded emotionally, that she could get hurt very easily.”</p>
<p>Finally, they’d gotten to the heart of the matter. Tom shook his head. “I’m not going to hurt her, Chakotay. Why would I want to do that?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say you’d want to. But you could, very easily.”</p>
<p>Tom wanted to say that he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t promise that. Neelix’ question had brought up thoughts and feelings that he’d rather avoid, and he’d realized that he’d left a lot of pain in the Alpha Quadrant: that he’d hurt many people in his life. Whether or not it was deliberate didn’t really matter.</p>
<p>Chakotay studied Tom appraisingly. “You know, after you were caught on that run, there were rumours that you’d been a Starfleet spy all along.” </p>
<p>Tom snorted. All his life there had been rumours about him of one sort or another. “Not unless they make a habit of throwing their spies into prison for eighteen months at the end of a mission.” He looked down at his clasped hands, resting in his lap, then back up. “Look, Chakotay,” his voice was soft, his tone sincere, “I never meant to betray you, not really. But I didn’t have the easiest time in that penal colony. The other Maquis there—the real Maquis—I guess they somehow heard those rumours and figured they were true. I just wanted to get out of there. I never dreamed you’d still be in the same place, using that base in the Badlands.” </p>
<p>Chakotay shook his head. “We weren’t. It was a fluke that we were where the Caretaker needed us to be when he took our ship.” </p>
<p>“Well,” Tom sighed, “I guess it was fate then.” </p>
<p>“I don’t believe in fate.” Chakotay shook his head. “I believe a man makes his own future.” </p>
<p>“For however long it lasts,” Tom murmured. “I hear they put convicted murderers in cryostasis for fifty years here. <em>Voyager</em> would be almost home by the time they let us go.” </p>
<p>“And I’ll bet you thought eighteen months was a long time,” Chakotay joked.</p>
<p>There was a loud buzzing, then the cell door swung open and Bahrat and Kathryn Janeway stepped inside. Tom and Chakotay were on their feet in an instant. </p>
<p>“Captain!” Tom’s relief was like a physical thing. </p>
<p>“Gentlemen.” She looked them up and down and smiled, and her eyes rested on Tom. “This is becoming a habit, Mister Paris.” </p>
<p>Tom felt his face heat. </p>
<p>“New testimony has been entered in the record.” Bharat said. “You’re free to go.”</p>
<p>“Just like that?” Chakotay asked, clearly annoyed at the lack of an explanation for their imprisonment and release. </p>
<p>“Don’t complain, Chakotay,” Tom said. He stepped toward the door, eager to get out of the cell and get back to <em>Voyager</em> as quickly as possible. </p>
<p>“Looks like you’ll be going to the luau after all,” Chakotay said.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “I guess we will.”</p>
<p>Chakotay clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.” </p>
<p>Tom wasn’t quite sure how to take that comment. Did he mean he was going to watch for Tom and B’Elanna to say hello, or that he’d be watching Tom while he was with her?</p>
<p>“Sounds like you two spent your time here bonding,” Janeway said. </p>
<p>“I think we know a little more about each other than we did a day ago,” Chakotay responded.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I think we do,” Tom agreed.</p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. 3 - “You did this?” - red - bulky - grief</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The giggling wasn’t a new sound, nor were the high-pitched squeals. The loud thump was disconcerting and B’Elanna held her breath, but when it was followed by laughter instead of a shocked wailing, she knew no one had come to grief after all.  She dropped her satchel on the kitchen table—the chairs had disappeared—then cautiously moved through the passageway to the living room. Really, at this point, nothing should surprise her but sometimes, even after ten years of loving Tom Paris, reality exceeded expectations. His voice was muffled, but his words were understandable. </p><p>“Red alert! An asteroid is headed right for us and our shields are down! What’ll we do, Commander?” </p><p>The living room looked like a photon torpedo had exploded, littering couch cushions and blankets and toys everywhere. The couch was tipped forward, resting on its front and creating a little cave out of the seat and backrest. They had stood the seat cushions on edge to create walls, then draped a blanket over them extending their fort’s ‘roof’ and creating a half-wall at the front. B’Elanna guessed that the clear space near the floor was a viewport but it could have equally been a doorway; Tom’s knee was poking out into the room, and his head and shoulders made a bulky lump in the roofline.</p><p>The kitchen chairs supplied the corner supports for another ‘building’, with another blanket-roof secured to their backs with hair elastics. The girls’ bed sheets hung from the ceiling—she didn't want to contemplate how they’d been attached—forming a bright, colourful tent emblazoned with frolicking cartoon targs on one end and Captain Proton on the other. </p><p>“Power up the disinti-ray-cannon.” Six-year-old Miral ordered. “We need to blast it before it’s too late!” </p><p>Miral’s high-pitched shout was followed by, “Bast’it!” from Ella. B’Elanna wasn’t sure if she should smile at her enthusiasm or cringe. Her children could appear bloodthirsty to the casual observer. </p><p>The girls’ mattresses had been hauled from their room and laid on the floor, connecting the structures. If it was an elaborate game of ‘the floor is lava!’ no one would die today: there was barely a centimeter of bare floor in viewing range. </p><p>“Lieutenant Ella, contact Earth Headquarters and tell them that they need to send help!” Tom said, his voice laced with worry. “Maybe Mars base can spare some rocketmen to save us.” </p><p>Ella screeched again and B’Elanna heard, rather than saw, her small body roll into her father. Tom grunted.</p><p>“Status, Ensign Proton?” Miri asked. B’Elanna grinned. She wondered when he’d been demoted. </p><p>“It’s coming right for us, Commander. The disinti-ray didn’t work!” </p><p>“Lieutenant Ella, fire up the destructo-cannon.” </p><p>“Yessir!” </p><p>B’Elanna snorted at that. They had both picked up the parlance of Tom’s Captain Proton programme, and words like ‘disinti-ray and ‘destructo-cannon’ and ‘fire up’ had entered their vocabulary as easily as <em>mama</em> and <em>all-gone</em> and <em>Ew-wa do it!</em>. </p><p>“It’s getting closer, Commander, we need to do something,” Tom cautioned. “Mars launched rockets but they won’t get here in time.” </p><p>The blanket-roof was stretched taut, then went slack, then it pulled taut again as an Ella-shaped bulk bounced up and down while she screamed. B’Elanna used her noise to quietly maneuver around the couch-fort?-tent?-rocketship? until she reached the accent chair in the corner of the living room. She gingerly leaned over and picked up the small cushion, then took aim. </p><p>“Get to the bunker!” Tom ordered. </p><p>The blanket-roof shifted and rippled as he bent over. One shoulder carved a ridge line through the fabric, then suddenly Ella’s legs arced out of the opening as Tom grabbed her and spun her onto his lap as she screamed. The ‘roof’ now had an Ella head-shaped bump to match the Tom head-bump. </p><p>B’Elanna smiled and roared ‘incoming!’ as she put all of her strength behind her pillow toss. It landed in the centre of the ‘roof’, caving in it slightly. If the physical effect of her throw was less than satisfying, the emotional one was not. Both girls screamed, their high-pitched howls ringing in B’Elanna’s ears, and <em>boiled</em> out of their fort. The blanket pulled free from the couch at one end, and it slumped over Tom so he resembled a shrouded statue. He battled out from under it, shoving it behind his back. His face was rosy with laughter as he made a grab for Ella intending to haul her backward. She successfully eluded him when she caught sight of her mother.</p><p>“Mama!” Ella shouted. She hopped across the mattress and flung herself against B’Elanna’s side. </p><p>B’Elanna picked her up in a hug and peppered her cheek with kisses. “What did you build?” she asked.</p><p>“Is’a moon base,” Ella answered. </p><p>B’Elanna glanced at Tom, an eyebrow raised. </p><p>“We watched <em>Space, 1999</em> on the television this morning,” he explained. “This is Moon Base Alpha.” </p><p>B’Elanna looked at the flimsy cloth structures and swallowed a smile. They didn’t look like they’d hold a habitable atmosphere or repel asteroid attacks. “Looks like you need help with your shields,” she said. “You did this?” she asked her husband.</p><p>“It was their idea.” Tom shrugged. “It’s fun.”</p><p>Miral was busy repairing their command pod, righting the couch cushions. B’Elanna set Ella back on her feet, then helped to secure the blanket over the cushion. She dropped a kiss on Miri’s head. “What’s with the mattresses?” she asked. </p><p>“The gravity’s different on the moon,” Miral said, her little face frowning in seriousness. “You bounce when you walk.” </p><p>“I guess you do,” B’Elanna agreed. Over Miri’s head, she caught Tom’s eyes and he grinned. She wasn’t wrong, and her solution for a moon surface was perfect in its simplicity. B’Elanna couldn’t help but laugh. It was times like this, when Miri had come up with a simple, logical solution to a problem, that Tom reminded her that it was her engineering genes coming out. Of course, he took full credit for the mess her creative solutions often produced. </p><p>“We seem to have survived the asteroid hit,” Tom said. “Would you like to join us on our moon base, Doctor Torres? We could really use your engineering expertise to rebuild.” </p><p>B’Elanna raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure there’s room?” She dropped a hand to her abdomen, noticeably distended in her sixth month of pregnancy. </p><p>“If there’s not enough room on the floor, you can sit on my lap,” Tom offered.</p><p>“That’s how I ended up too big to fit in your tent.” B’Elanna grinned.</p><p>“It’s the moon base command center,” Tom corrected her, his smile matching hers.</p><p>“I need to check the airponics bay,” Miral stated. She ‘bounced’ across the mattress to the ‘targ tent’, and Ella followed her. </p><p>“They put apples and bananas in there for a snack,” Tom said. He patted the floor beside him. “Lots of room now,” he noted.</p><p>B’Elanna grinned and lowered herself beside him. “So, how long did this ‘base’ take to build, <em>Ensign</em>?” Her tone had taken on a teasing, sultry note that she couldn’t quite hide. </p><p>He drew back, one eyebrow rising to his hairline. “Not long.” He smiled. </p><p>After Tom had been demoted while they were on <em>Voyager</em>, they had discovered that her outranking him had brought a new excitement to their sex life. Based on her two previous pregnancies, thay had two more months to enjoy this little trip down memory lane. </p><p>“So it won’t take long to get their room put back together?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“And our bed is still in one piece?”</p><p>“Uh huh.” His smile was slow and suggestive. “Why do you want to know?”</p><p>She smiled back, trying to come up with something suggestive that she could say in front of her very young children. Since they’d both left Starfleet, she was out of practice ordering Tom around.</p><p>“Mama?” Ella hopped across the mattress toward them, and B’Elanna put out her hand to prevent her from hopping right into her. She arched her back and stuck out her belly, and bumped it against B’Elanna’s arm. “Mama? I’m hungry.”</p><p>“You are?” B’Elanna poked her belly, and she squealed. “What’s in there?”</p><p>“My baby!” Generally louder and more rambunctious than her more contemplative older sister, Ella had recently decided that if her mother had a baby in her belly, she did too. </p><p>“Well,” B’Elanna asked, “what would the baby like for dinner?”</p><p>“Pizza!” She clapped her hands and did a little dance. </p><p>B’Elanna shot a glance at her husband, who shrugged. “You get dinner, we’ll clean up here,” Tom offered. </p><p>She helped him right the couch, and Ella and Miri each shoved a seat cushion in place then flopped down on it face first. B’Elanna carried a dining chair to the kitchen and set the table for dinner before she input the order in the replicator. It was still a few hours before the girls went to bed, and from the ruckus coming from the other room, they weren’t in the least bit sleepy. She tried to remember the plot of the tv show they’d been watching, and mused on the ridiculousness that a story set almost four hundred years ago was supposed to be a glimpse of humanity’s future. Well, they got the lunar base right, anyway.</p><p>She knew what her future held: messy, pizza-sauce faces, sticky cheese, and bathtime with water all over the floor. And she wouldn’t trade it for anything. </p><p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>35. 10 - “All I ever wanted.” - if I didn’t have you - healing - hope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Prompt 10 - “All I ever wanted.” - if I didn’t have you - healing - hope</p><p>A/N: With these prompts, this was a no brainer! But… I absolutely hate how the writers/producers handled B’Elanna’s first contact with her father in 20 years in the episode, Author Author. Hate it. Her separation from her father was established in season one, and the basis for the epic P/T episode, Lineage, where it was treated with the gravitas it deserves. So wedging it into the comic tour de farce of the Doctor’s holonovel seemed somehow disrespectful both to B’Elanna and to the fans who love her character. </p><p>This was supposed to be from her pov, inside her head, but then this happened…</p><p>*****</p><p>Tom twirled the yellow isolinear chip between his fingers, using his thumb to propel it over and under, round and round. Much like any given month in the Delta Quadrant, he mused. Thanks to Harry’s bad luck, he’d been given a reprieve; time to get his thoughts together before the <i>interrogation</i>. Unfair, his conscience whispered. He’s proud of you. He misses you. The memory of his father’s very public comments brought a soft smile to his face, and he pressed his lips together in a slight frown to contain it. </p><p>His gut reaction when he’d seen that low number was to throw the chip back in the hat and try his luck again. For the first time in a very long time he felt in control of his life, felt secure—as secure as he could feel here in the Delta Quadrant where mind-control and kidnappings by sentient holograms and visits from all-powerful super beings were a weekly occurrence. He hated that just the thought of a three-minute conversation with his father made him edgy, unsure, like he was as green as Harry had been when they’d first met at that bar on Deep Space Nine. He hated that just the thought of facing his father—across a gulf of thirty thousand light years—could undo all the hard-won equilibrium he’d managed to scrape together in the last seven years. </p><p>He flipped the chip, and made a grab for it as he almost dropped it. Light caught on his wedding band and flashed, and he blew a breath, smiled. He had a wife he loved who loved him back, and soon they’d have a daughter. He had the respect of his captain and the crew, and his position on <i>Voyager</i>. And he had his friends. He didn’t need his father’s approval, though he appeared to have it anyway. And he had six weeks to figure out what to talk to him about. If he were very lucky, B’Elanna would have had the baby before then and the entire three minutes would be taken up with close ups of the baby, and talk about feeding schedules and how well she was sleeping and pooping. </p><p>He stopped in front of the door to his quarters and keyed in the code. The doors parted to reveal B’Elanna seated on the sofa absorbed in a PADD. She glanced up at him and smiled. </p><p>“Hi.” </p><p>“Hi to you, too. I didn’t think you’d be home yet,” Tom stated. She ‘mmm’ed’ in reply as she went back to tapping in a message. He moved toward her, and she bent her head slightly to the side, exposing her throat. He dropped a kiss under her ear obligingly, then tossed his isolinear chip onto the coffee table and cupped her jaw. He stole another kiss as she straightened.</p><p>She reciprocated, softening her mouth as she put more pressure into the kiss, making it last. After a long moment he withdrew, and she smiled up at him. “What was that for?” </p><p>Tom shook his head. “I’m just really glad that I have you. If I didn’t have you, I... “ he shook his head again. He likely wouldn’t be here, he decided, on <i>Voyager</i>. He would have left the ship at some point in the journey, looking for something to fill that empty space in his gut. Looking, not for adventure, but belonging. The thought of spending the next thirty years without her at his side—of spending the last seven, here, without her—made his breath catch in his throat. She was as necessary to him as the air he breathed.</p><p>She cocked her head again, but the frown she wore told him that the move had nothing to do with procuring another kiss. “What is it?” she asked.</p><p>“Nothing.” He straightened, and gestured to the PADD as he crossed to the replicator. “Writing staff reviews again already?” he tossed over his shoulder. “What do you want for lunch?” he asked. “Pizza? Potato salad? Pickles and ice cream?”  </p><p>“Maybe just a cup of broth,” she answered absently. </p><p>She’d gone back to pecking at the PADD’s touchscreen but he caught her little smile. He keyed in an order for two chicken salad sandwiches (lettuce, pickles, extra mayo, hold the tomato because it tends to slide out and make a mess) and a serving of onion rings for them to share. Her pregnancy had fostered a love of all things crispy and salty, and though food created by the replicator was nutritionally balanced, the calorie count could still be off the charts. He glanced at his stomach as the onion rings materialized on the tray. He needed to take it easy or he’d start to look like <i>he</i> was nearing his third trimester…</p><p>“It’s a letter to Elizabeth,” she said, answering his question from a minute ago.</p><p>Tom raised an eyebrow. Though they’d both received letters from home since Reg Barclay had got the Midas array working, as far as he knew she’d only answered one from her cousin. The letters from Elizabeth had raked up all of B’Elanna’s old emotions about her father’s abandonment, he realized now, and she’d avoided maintaining a steady contact with her or the rest of her father’s family. He knew that she’d been writing to old Maquis colleagues, most of whom were still in the correction facility in Auckland, and that she’d contacted the Klingon homeworld hoping that someone could track down her mother and confirm that she was still alive, but the news that B’Elanna was contemplating actually speaking to a member of her extended family on her video call came as a surprise.</p><p>“Your cousin?” he clarified.</p><p>“Mmm,” B’Elanna grunted. “I guess they contacted the families about the video link, and she must have answered right away; she wants to speak to me when it’s my turn for my call.” </p><p>“That’s great, right?” Tom replied. He tried to sound convinced. </p><p>He carried their lunch to the couch and set the plates on the coffee table, then headed back to the replicator for a couple of glasses of water. It was important that B’Elanna stay hydrated, especially since they planned to breast feed the baby. For just a moment warmth embraced him, wrapped around him like a fluffy blanket, and he gave himself over to the feeling of complete happiness and contentment. He stood there, between the couch and the replicator, holding the glasses of ice water and smiling stupidly at his wife. She glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow, and Tom broke into a grin. </p><p>“When’s your call?” he asked. He placed the glasses on the table and sat beside her.</p><p>“I got lucky number thirteen, so five days.” She set the PADD aside and reached for her sandwich. “What about you?” </p><p>“Oh,” Tom hooked an onion ring and popped it in his mouth, then chewed methodically. “About six weeks.” He shrugged. “At least I’m not last.” He smiled reflexively, then took a big bite of his own sandwich before he turned to look at her. She was staring at him, her expression flat, mouth pursed. </p><p>“Give it up,” she said. “Harry already told me that you traded with him.” </p><p>Caught. He felt heat suffuse his cheeks; the tips of his ears were warm. “It’s his mom’s birthday,” he explained. “He was disappointed that he wouldn’t get to see her.” </p><p>“And what about you? If your parents find out that you traded your chip, don’t you think they’ll be disappointed?” </p><p>“My father is fine,” he said. “I saw him this morning.” </p><p>Her eyebrow climbed. “Really? You were in astrometrics when Harry and Reg put the call through? Funny, I thought you were in charge of the bridge then.” </p><p>“Fine,” Tom confessed. “The rest of the command crew got to speak to my father. It’s the same thing. Sort of.” </p><p>“Is it?” </p><p>Tom sighed. “If he wants to say something to me, he can write to me and say it.” He gestured toward her abandoned letter to her cousin. “Besides, mom, Moira, and Kathleen have told us all the news.” It was true, when their contact with the Alpha Quadrant had still been monthly, they got at least one letter from his mother and sisters with each data dump, usually addressed to both of them. His family had embraced B’Elanna completely, his father included, and had been effusive in their congratulations on their wedding and the baby. Kathleen had been the only one to mention B’Elanna’s Maquis past, joking that it must have been the Maquis ‘uniform’ of boots and leathers that had first caught his eye. She hadn’t been far wrong. </p><p>“Hmmph,” B’Elanna snorted. “So, do you know who got the first chip?”</p><p>Tom laughed. “You won’t believe it.” </p><p>“Try me,” she said.</p><p>“The Doc.” </p><p>She drew back, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open. “The Doctor?!” </p><p>“Mmm, hm.”</p><p>She puffed an amused breath and when she spoke her words were laced with sarcasm. “Who’s he going to call, Lewis Zimmerman? Reg?” </p><p>“That’s what I wondered. He was pretty mysterious; said he had an important call to make.” </p><p>She frowned. “I wonder what that’s all about.” </p><p>He shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.” </p><p>*****</p><p>Four days later… </p><p>He’d been annoyed by the Doctor’s representation of the crew, but he hadn’t expected the programme to cause as much of a stink as it had. Harry was worried that anyone back home who played <i>Photons Be Free</i> would believe that it was an accurate representation of life onboard <i>Voyager</i>. An accurate representation of them. In Tom’s opinion, it was simply an overblown ode to the Doc’s ego mixed with his tendency toward martyrdom. But it still rankled enough that he thought they should bring it to the captain’s attention. B’Elanna had said that she thought <i>Lieutenant Torrey’s</i> bad attitude was funny, but not nearly as funny as Lieutenant Marseille’s mustache and the EMH’s rather <i>non</i>-mobile emitter. </p><p>The captain had been less than amused. And, eventually, the Doctor had been persuaded to make changes to the programme. </p><p>Tom had tried to laugh it off, but he’d been shocked and, okay, hurt, when realized what the Doctor must really think of him; how he must view him even after the last four years of working alongside him in sickbay. A blow that had wounded Tom’s pride despite his protestations that he didn’t care what anyone in the Alpha Quadrant thought. It had spurred him to create his own version of life aboard the <i>USS Voyeur</i> which, predictably, had offended the Doctor. That had been Tom’s intention, after all. </p><p>The Doc’s explanation, that Lieutenant Marseilles wasn’t an accurate representation of Lieutenant, lately Ensign, Paris, hadn’t really assuaged his feelings of betrayal. It had crossed his mind that just maybe he should have kept his chip and spoken to his father when he’d had the chance, before the Doctor’s holonovel was distributed. A little preemptive advocacy for the man he’d become in the last seven years. He could have started with asking the Admiral if he’d ever received his letter explaining about that demotion. To say his career in Starfleet was chequered was an understatement. But really, everything could be explained given enough time and impetus. And courage. </p><p>So, when the Doc stopped him after the command crew’s impromptu meeting in the mess to apologize and to ask for his help with the revisions to his holonovel, Tom couldn’t resist taking a jab at him. </p><p>“I could use your help with the rewrites,” the Doctor admitted as they left the mess hall together.</p><p>“Really?” Tom raised a cynical eyebrow. “You realise, as a writer I'm a little unsophisticated,” he drawled.</p><p>“No,” the Doctor parried, repeating an expression that Tom had used a few days earlier, “I believe the phrase you're looking for is low-brow.” </p><p>The Doc walked off with a smirk firmly situated on his face, and Tom snorted. He had him there. He caught sight of his wife further along the corridor, about to round the corner, and jogged to catch up with her. She was walking slowly, her attention caught by a PADD she was reading. She’d left the meeting in the mess without so much as a word to him, not seeming to notice when the Doc had stopped him on their way out the door. </p><p>“Hey,” he said when he caught up to her. As they walked down the corridor side by side, he glanced over her shoulder at the ever-present PADD in her hand. “What's that?”</p><p>“It's from my father.” Her voice was curiously flat, even. “He wants to... talk.” </p><p>She didn’t look at him as she replied, but a tilt of her head and the sarcasm that laced her tone on her last word warned Tom to tread carefully. He caught the slight twist of her mouth, the wariness in the slight rounding of her shoulders. He swallowed what he wanted to say and asked, “What are you going to do?” instead.</p><p>“Well,” she shrugged: a small, defensive shifting of her shoulders as her chin came up. “I've already arranged to talk with my cousin.”</p><p>“Oh.” He nodded slightly. “Well, I'm sure she wouldn't mind waiting a few weeks.” They slowed to a stop in the middle of the corridor.</p><p>“I wouldn't know what to say to him.” </p><p>Her voice had taken on a distinctly <i>offensive</i> tone now, and Tom turned to face her. He wanted to advise her to steer well clear of that son of a bitch! To tell her that she didn’t owe him a damn thing, especially after so long. But John Torres owed <i>her</i>. And just maybe he was finally ready to explain why he’d abandoned her so many years ago and destroyed her childhood. There were a few things he’d like to say to John Torres, himself, but he pushed aside his anger to study B’Elanna’s reaction.</p><p>“Then let him do the talking,” he suggested. She sighed, and Tom hated the expression he read in her eyes: the indecision, the doubt. The anticipation of getting hurt again. He cupped her shoulders and slid his palms down her arms until he held her hands in his. “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. You can tell him no.”</p><p>“I’m not sure what I want,” she admitted. </p><p>He leaned down and kissed her, then pulled her into a hug. She melted against him, her body relaxing, and rested her cheek on his chest. “I’m off if you want to talk about it,” he murmured against her hair. He wasn’t due back in sickbay until tomorrow morning. </p><p>She pulled away and angled her head up to look him in the eyes, finally. “Okay.”</p><p>He slid an arm around her back, his hand resting between her shoulder blades, and they headed toward their quarters. “Do you want to read it?” she asked, referring to the letter from John Torres. He didn’t, really. He didn’t want any more reasons to be furious with her father. He was astounded by the man’s nerve, the utter gall of his asking to speak to her when he hadn’t even bothered to write to her since he’d left! Since she was a child. </p><p>He managed to pull off a smile. “If you want me to.” </p><p>“I do. I need a second opinion, I guess.” </p><p>She handed him the PADD as she glanced away, and he took a fortifying breath before he looked down at the words.</p><p><i>Dear B’Elanna.</i> 

</p>
<p>At least he remembered her name, Tom thought.</p><p><i>I know I have no right to expect anything from you, but I hope you’ll read this. You can’t imagine how relieved I was to hear that </i>Voyager<i> was safe, even if you were so far away. And I know your mother would say I’ve been a coward to not write to you before now, but I wasn’t sure you’d even want to hear from me. I have no excuses. No excuse for leaving you when you were little, and no excuse for staying away for so long, but believe me when I say that I’ve thought about you every day.</i></p><p>A hundred words in and the man hadn’t apologized yet, not really. Tom glanced at B’Elanna as they stopped in front of their quarters and she keyed in the door code. She stood stiffly erect, her face set as she concentrated on the keypad. Tom consciously relaxed his jaw as he followed her into their quarters. </p><p>B’Elanna headed toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower, then change,” she told him.</p><p>He reached for her arm. When she turned to face him, he pushed down the urge to pull her into another hug in and cupped her shoulder instead. “Do you want—” </p><p>“No,” she cut him off with a little smile and a pat to the chest. “I think I can manage to take a shower by myself. Just… keep reading. Please. I’m fine.” </p><p>He wasn’t wholly convinced about that, but he sat on the couch and did as she asked. </p><p>
  <i>I guess I just assumed that you’d adjust to your new life better if I wasn’t popping in and out of it, and I know that my staying away was what your mother wanted so she could teach you about your Klingon heritage without my interference.</i>
</p><p>Tom’s teeth were clamped tightly together again, and he worked his jaw a little to ease the tension in the muscle. Interference?! Since when was taking an interest in your child considered interfering? Since… since his own father had taken the opposite tack and made it his business to have an opinion on every decision about Tom’s life and future, he reflected. </p><p>
  <i>But I don’t want you to blame her. It’s not her fault. It’s really no one’s fault but mine, and I don’t expect you to believe me, but I am sorry about everything.</i>
</p><p>Tom’s features drew into a frown as he harrumphed. Too fucking little, way the hell too late! </p><p><i>The Starfleet liaison officer contacted me half an hour ago and said that they’ve established contact with </i>Voyager<i> and that we’ll be able to speak to you in real time. It seems incredible considering how far away you are. Thirty years really isn’t that long, so I’d hoped we’d see each other again one day face to face, but I never dreamed they’d figure out a way to maintain a comm link even if it is for just a few minutes a day. I know there are other people you’d probably want to talk to but I’d love to talk to you, if you agree. We just have so much to say, so much time to make up. I don’t even know what you look like anymore.</i></p><p>And whose fault was that! </p><p>“You’re angry.”</p><p>B’Elanna’s soft voice startled him and he jumped; he’d been so engrossed in her letter that he hadn’t realized that she’d finished her shower and come back into the main living area. She was dressed in her red pyjamas, the waistband pushed down below her hips, and the fabric of the generous shirt pulled taut across her burgeoning belly. As she sat beside him and studied him, he realized that he’d been glaring at the PADD. </p><p>Tom pressed his lips together, then allowed his face muscles to go slack. “I’m trying not to be,” he admitted. “Look, I’ll support whatever decision you make, you know that. But…” he paused, weighing his words carefully, “I want you to be sure, if you agree to talk to him, that you’re doing it because you want to see him not because you think you owe him something.” He knew that she still partly blamed herself, her child-self, for her father’s decision to leave; that she felt that she’d been the one to drive him away. </p><p>She reached for his hand, and he turned it up so he could grasp hers, palms touching, fingers interlaced. She held his eyes for a moment then looked away, and he squeezed her hand gently. </p><p>Her voice was low when she spoke. “All I ever wanted was to feel like I belong; like I’m a part of something.”</p><p>His heart constricted and a lump formed in his throat. “B’Elanna—”</p><p>“No. Let me finish.” She squeezed his hand then let go of it, choosing instead to look him in the eye. </p><p>“I realize now that that’s why I went to the Academy and why I joined the Maquis when I washed out.” Her generous lips twisted, and Tom saw what looked like regret in her expression before her mouth pulled into a little smile. “I found that here on <i>Voyager</i>, and with you.” </p><p>Her hand landed on his chest, and he cupped it and held it there. </p><p>She glanced down, looked back. “I know that what my father did was unforgivable, and that it made me…” she settled her free hand on her belly, “made me think that you might leave one day, too.” </p><p>“Never,” Tom said. He leaned forward and kissed her. “Never.” </p><p>“I know that now, I do. I do,” she repeated when she caught Tom’s expression. “And I understand how crazy it was to try to change the baby’s DNA.” That muscle in Tom’s jaw jumped again. “But I can’t help thinking, if I’d been successful, if you’d been just a few minutes too late getting to sickbay and stopping me, how much more sorry I’d be now, than I already am. How I’d give anything to take it back, to go back in time and change it.”  </p><p>She gestured to the PADD on Tom’s lap, noting the place where Tom had stopped reading. “He goes on to say that if he could go back in time and change it, he would. He would have tried harder to save his marriage, and he never would have a...abandoned me. His words,” she noted. “He would have kept in touch even if he did decide to divorce my mother.”</p><p>“Okay,” Tom replied. Easy enough to regret your past mistakes. It was harder to attempt to fix them. ...which was precisely what John Torres was trying to do. Tom sighed, all the fight leaving him. “Yeah,” he said. “So you’ve decided to talk to him?” </p><p>She nodded. “I’m hoping that we can… well, I guess all I’m hoping is that I can face him and get the first meeting over with. That I can look at him and listen to his voice and not feel like that little girl again, the one he… left. No!” She held up a hand when Tom made noises to protest. “I’m not looking for validation from him, Tom. I know who I am, and what I want, and I know what I’m worth. I don’t really care one way or the other if he approves of me now or not.” </p><p>Tom wasn’t completely convinced by that little speech but he let her continue. </p><p>“I’m hoping that I can, I don’t know, close the chapter on that part of my life, I guess. Put all that pain behind me. I was a different person then and so was he. And I need to know that he’s missed me and that he truly regrets leaving me back then.” She nodded decisively. “I need to see it in his eyes.”</p><p>Tom held himself very still. Her hand was still on his chest, still held by his own, and he squeezed it again. “Do you want me to be there with you when you take the call?” he asked. The Doc could spare him for a few minutes. </p><p>“God, yes!” She flashed him an embarrassed grin. “I’m not sure I’d have the courage to face him by myself with Seven looking on, listening to everything we say.” </p><p>Tom’s mouth twitched in a grin. Exactly the way he felt about facing his father.</p><p>She sobred. “You know,” she said, as if reading his mind, “If I didn’t have you, I probably wouldn’t even consider talking to him.” Tom’s eyebrow rose. He was about to make a joke about Harry filling in to hold her hand, when she continued. “I know that you and your father are trying to fix things between the two of you and I’ve seen the difference it’s made in you. You’re lighter. Like a weight’s been lifted from your back.” </p><p>“You’re the difference in me, B’Elanna,” Tom assured her. “I stopped caring if I ever spoke to my father again a long time ago.” </p><p>“Now I know that’s not true,” she said. “I saw how you tried to pretend you weren’t upset when we lost his letter three years ago.” </p><p>Tom had to admit that she was partially right but his anxiety over that letter, swallowed by the Hirogen array, had more to do with the dressing down he’d expected it to contain than protestations of sorrow and remorse for the rift between them. He pushed his own problems with his father aside. “Okay,” he agreed. “When’s your slot?”</p><p>“Tomorrow at fifteen hundred, twenty-two minutes,” she answered, “according to Seven.”</p><p>Tom’s face puckered. “And forty-seven seconds?” he asked. Seven was known to be precise. B’Elanna grinned. “I’m in sickbay tomorrow afternoon and the Doc owes me. I’ll pick you up at fifteen hundred, thirteen minutes and escort you there.” </p><p>“I think I can get to astrometrics by myself, Tom.”</p><p>Tom studied her for a moment, then leaned over and kissed her again. “I want to pick you up,” he said. </p><p>“Okay,” she acquiesced. She blew a breath and pointed at the PADD. “I guess I should write back to him and tell him I’m willing to talk to him. Though he’ll probably get the letter at the same time as when the call comes through.” </p><p>Tom’s lips twitched. “You should probably give Seven his contact information so she can set up the call.” </p><p>“Yeah. Right.” She nodded.</p><p>“But,” he continued, “it’s not a bad idea to write to him if you want to. Three minutes isn’t very long; there’s going to be lots of stuff you won’t have time to say.” </p><p>“I suppose so,” she answered, her tone evasive. “Oh! I have to write to Elizabeth and explain why I cancelled on her.” She stood and crossed to the desk in the corner of their quarters then returned with another PADD. She held it out to him. “Here.” </p><p>“What’s that for?” he asked.</p><p>“I’m not the only one who owes someone a letter, Mister One Hundred and Thirty,” she said. </p><p>Tom’s mouth dropped open in protest but he only sighed in resignation. He owed a letter to his father, to his mother, his sisters. A couple of old friends from  the Academy. B’Elanna sat and scooted a little closer to him on the couch, and rested her head on his shoulder. He stretched his neck to drop a kiss on her forehead, then turned on the PADD.</p><p>He thought for a moment, then started to write:</p><p>
  <i>Dear Dad,</i>
</p><p><i>I have a confession to make. Well, two, actually. The captain invited me to join the rest of the command crew in the astrometrics lab while Harry and Seven were attempting to establish contact with you and Reg Barclay. I volunteered to take the bridge instead. Actually, I thought you might like that: me in the big chair while everyone else was away from the bridge.</i> </p><p>He blew a breath, and B’Elanna glanced at him. He smiled at her and continued typing. </p><p>
  <i>The other thing I have to confess is that the captain and Neelix devised a plan to allocate time on the comm link whereby we all drew numbers randomly from a hat. I got number six and, well, I guess I should have called you a few days ago but I gave up my spot and traded with Harry Kim. So, it looks like we won’t be seeing each other for another month and a half. But look on the bright side: maybe B’Elanna will have had the baby by then…</i>
</p><p>******</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>36. 25 - “Sometimes you can even see” - intertwined - mystery - buddy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A/N: Set shortly after In the Flesh but before Once Upon a Time. I’ve realized, while writing it, that it’s kind of a twist on the Candy/Conversation Hearts theme. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“You’re still uneasy with my decision, I can tell.” </p>
<p>Kathryn held her coffee mug suspended in midair and observed her first officer over its rim. As much as Chakotay had pushed for a ceasing of hostilities with Species 8472, she sensed in the set of his jaw that he didn’t fully agree with the accommodations she’d allowed them. He didn’t say anything to address her statement, and instead glanced around the crowded mess before returning his attention to focus on her again. </p>
<p>“Go ahead,” Kathryn assured him. “I’d like to know your opinion and I don’t think anyone will overhear us.”</p>
<p>“All right. I am a little uneasy,” he conceded. “I’m not thrilled with the idea that they’ll be able to manufacture something to block our nanoprobe weapon.”</p>
<p>“But I thought you trusted them; you certainly seem to have come to an understanding with the one who called itself Archer.” </p>
<p>“I do trust Valerie,” Chakotay said. “And I believe that <i>Boothby</i> wants to look for a solution to our conflict so both of our species live in peace. It’s the others that I don’t trust.” </p>
<p>“Bullock?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Him too. But I’m thinking of their superiors, the people who ordered them to take on their mission; the ones in charge, back in their dimension.” </p>
<p>“I could hardly refuse,” she reminded him. “It was the only way I could think of to persuade them to give us their genetic alteration information. And we need it. Starfleet needs it.” </p>
<p>“Tit for tat?” </p>
<p>“Something like that.” </p>
<p>“You know,” he mused, “if the Doctor and Seven can figure it out, it could have all sorts of uses. I’ve experienced the Doctor’s abilities with plastic surgery, but if we’d had access to this technology five years ago, we might have been able to replace Jaresh-Inyo with one of our own agents.”</p>
<p>“We?” Kathryn asked. She’d been leaning toward him across the table but now she straightened, momentarily taken aback by his casual statement that he would have instigated a coup by infiltrating the Federation Council and replacing the President with a Maquis doppelgänger. “Why, Chakotay, sometimes I forget.” </p>
<p>“Don’t let my appearance fool you, Kathryn.” He smiled to soften his statement. “Under this uniform beats the heart of a Maquis.” </p>
<p>She nodded and pursed her mouth on a thought. “Species 8472 are over three metres tall and tripedal,” she said. “But they were able to shrink their bodies down to our size.” She gestured toward her torso. “Once we understand how they did it, I don’t see why that can’t can’t be reversed. Flipped.”</p>
<p>“You want to be taller?” he asked, his mouth curving into a grin. “Or do you have a secret desire to have three legs?” </p>
<p>She laughed. “I would have done better in track and field at the Academy if I had. My mother always said that it would have been useful to have a second set of arms when we were younger, to corral us.” </p>
<p>“Why Kathryn, I had no idea you were such a terror when you were a little girl.”</p>
<p>Janeway pursed her lips, thrust out her chin in a shrug. “Phoebe and I weren’t so much terrors as… curious,” she finished. “Energetic.” </p>
<p>Chakotay smiled back at her from across the mess table. “And into everything?” he presumed. He lifted his coffee mug and took a drink. It was his turn to peer at her from across the rim.</p>
<p>“So my mother claims.” She grinned, then sobred, pushing her half-eaten breakfast to the side of the small table. “I can’t help wondering what Starfleet will do with this genetic-alteration information, when we make contact with them again.” </p>
<p>“If they can perfect it, it would provide a tactical advantage for certain… <i>sections</i> of the defense branch,” he conceded. “You think they’ll weaponize the technology.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t think they’ll use it just to give themselves pointed ears or nose creases,” she said.</p>
<p>“Probably not,” he nodded. “Too bad; I think you’d look attractive with spots and pointy ears.” </p>
<p>There was a teasing glint in his eyes, and Kathryn couldn’t help but laugh. </p>
<p>“Good morning, Captain, Commander.” </p>
<p>The high, clear voice of <i>Voyager’s<i> only child crewmember, Naomi Wildman, interrupted them. Her long red-gold hair was pulled back from around her face by a braid that hung down her back, and her face was lit with her own smile; barely contained excitement shone in her eyes.</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Good morning, Naomi,” Kathryn replied. “How are you this morning?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Naomi looked down at a shiny black ball that she was holding and gave it a shake. She waited a moment before answering her captain, her forehead drawn in concentration. “‘Concentrate and ask again’,” she said. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I beg your pardon?” Kathryn said.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Sometimes it gets it wrong,” Naomi stated. She shook the ball again and stared at it, then brought her chin up with a grin. “‘Outlook good’,” she pronounced. She turned her attention to Chakotay. “It’s your turn to ask me a question, Commander.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He glanced at Kathryn before addressing Naomi. She was wearing a puzzled frown which he suspected matched his own. “What do you have there?” he asked.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I think that’s the wrong kind of question but I’ll try.” She shook the ball a third time. “‘Better not tell you now’,” she said. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Her grin bubbled into a laugh and Kathryn’s eyes met Chakotay’s again before she refocused on Naomi. She held out a hand. “May I see it?” she asked.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Another shake. “‘Most likely’,” Naomi agreed. One more shake: “‘It is certain’.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>She nodded decisively and handed the toy to Kathryn, who turned it over as she examined it. Black with a white circle, inside which the number eight was printed in black, it looked like an 8-ball from a game of pool but larger. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. On the opposite side of the ball from the 8 was a circular window in which Kathryn could see blue liquid, and suspended in that was a white triangle with words printed in black lettering. She twisted her wrist and the triangle skewed slightly, then floated up to the window. “‘Most likely’?” she read. She looked a question at Naomi. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Sometimes it gets confused,” Naomi stated. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“What is it?” Chakotay asked. He held out a hand and Kathryn set the ball in his palm. He gave it a little shake and watched as a white triangle floated up to the window. “‘My reply is no’?” He raised an eyebrow. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Apparently, it doesn’t want to tell us,” Kathryn quipped.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“See?” Naomi said. She shrugged elaborately. “It’s confused. It’s a Magic 8 Ball,” she stated. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>She’d delivered the words as if he should have known what they meant, and Chakotay nodded solemnly, catching Kathryn’s eye as he did. “Where did you get it?” He asked. He was reasonably certain that he hadn’t missed her birthday. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“From Tom. Lieutenant Paris,” she amended. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Kathryn’s mouth twitched. “Of course,” she drawled. “So, it tells your fortune, hmm?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Sort of.” She shrugged. “It answers questions.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“But only if you ask the right question,” Chakotay added. He handed the ball back to Naomi. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Do you want to ask it something, Commander?” the little girl asked. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes, Commander,” Kathryn encouraged, “ask it something. I want to know what else it has to say.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Chakotay studied the captain’s expression. She looked innocent enough, but he could see the laughter that she was attempting to suppress in the curve of her lips and the hightened colour in her cheeks. He turned his attention back to Naomi. “All right,” he agreed. “How about: when will we get home?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Naomi wrinkled her nose. “It’s not good with numbers,” she said. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Maybe you just need to rephrase the question,” Kathryn suggested. She slanted a glance at him, and he raised an eyebrow in response. “Will we get home soon?” she asked.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Naomi shook the ball with a little more vigour than she had before and Kathryn found that she was holding her breath as she waited for Naomi’s—the ball’s—reply.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“‘Yes’!” Naomi’s head snapped up and she grinned. Her eyes were round with excitement. She thrust the Magic 8 Ball toward the captain. “It says ‘yes’,” she repeated. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Well, that’s wonderful news,” Kathryn said. “You can’t argue with the Magic 8 Ball.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Chakotay agreed. “How does it work?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Naomi scrunched her face in thought, her little nose wrinkling in a fair impression of a Bajoran. “Tom, Lieutenant Paris I mean, says that it’s a mystery, but Ha—Ensign Kim, told me that there’s a iso… iko…” She paused and stilled for a moment, then took a breath before she continued taking exaggerated care as she pronounced each portion of the word. “I-co-sah-he-dron,” her head bobbed with each syllable, and she smiled as she finished the difficult word, “inside and each side has a different answer on it. Every time you ask it a question, it decides which anwer to show you. But sometimes it changes its mind. Sometimes you can even see it start to show one side but then it flips and it shows you another.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>She shrugged with her entire body and Kathryn couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm for the toy.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Icosahedron.” The cool, assured voice of their former-Borg crew member cut over Naomi’s explanation. “A polyhedron with twenty faces, each in the shape of an equilateral triangle. It is named from the ancient Greek <i>eikosi</i>, meaning twenty and <i>hedra</i>, meaning seat.” Seven appeared beside Naomi and slid a PADD onto the table in front of Kathryn. “Captain, here is my initial report on Species 8472’s genetic manipulation technology.” She turned to address Naomi, her eyes studying the ball in the child’s hands. “Its very structure limits the answers it produces. The probability of getting a particular answer to your question is only one in twenty.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Seven, why don’t we keep the specifics of how the <i>Magic</i> 8 Ball comes up with its answers a mystery, hmm?” Kathryn nodded toward Naomi, who had shuffled slightly closer to Chakotay when Seven appeared at the table. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Perhaps it should be called a Magic <i>Twenty</i> Ball instead,” Seven suggestly dryly. She appraised Naomi. “You are a child and yet you refer to Lieutenant Paris and Ensign Kim by their first names?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Tom says we’re buddies so I can call him Tom,” Naomi answered matter of factly. “B’Elanna, too, when she’s not on duty.” She turned to address her captain and commander. “We’re going to build an ico-sa-hedron at lunchtime.” She only stumbled slightly over the word.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Would you like to ask it a question, Seven?” Chakotay raised an eyebrow in a challenge. “You can guess which answer it’ll give you beforehand, if you like. One chance in twenty to get it right.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Seven raised an eyebrow at the commander, then turned toward Naomi again. “Very well. Will Species 8472 uphold the terms of our agreement or can we expect an invasion force to engage and infiltrate <i>Voyager</i> in the future?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I don’t think that’s quite the kind of question the Commander had in mind,” Kathryn began, but Naomi was already shaking the ball. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“‘Very doubtful’,” she said. She sucked on her bottom lip. “Is that good?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Very good,” Chakotay assured her. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I need to see if anyone else has questions,” Naomi said. They watched as she shot a quick glance at Seven then backed away from them with a mumbled ‘bye’. She headed toward the back of the room where Tom, B’Elanna, and Harry were finishing their own breakfast, but stopped on her way to speak to Ensigns Vorik and Tabor, who were sharing a table with Crewmen Dalby and Chell. Naomi said something that Kathryn didn’t catch, and she watched as Vorik raised an eyebrow, then responded. Naomi shook the ball and shrugged, her expression morphing into a pragmatic half-smile. She repeated her actions in response to Chell’s question, gracing him with a beaming smile as she repeated the answer. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Chakotay chuckled as they watched Naomi say her goodbyes and move on to a table with Chapman, Ayala, Jarvin, and Joe Carey.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Surely you are not going to rely on the prophetic abilities of a toy to safeguard the security of the ship and crew, Captain,” Seven demanded. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I wasn’t planning to, but maybe we should ask the Magic 8 Ball,” Kathryn suggested. Seven seemed poleaxed by the very notion, and Kathryn had to suppress another smile. “Of course I’m not,” she assured her. “And as soon as we figure out a way to reestablish contact with Starfleet, you can be sure I’ll file a thorough report on the threat that Species 8472 and their genetic alteration abilities pose to the Federation.” She tapped the PADD with a fingernail. “I look forward to reading your report.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“As I stated, it is merely preliminary data. The Doctor and I have yet to determine how Species 8472 was able to break down the bonds in the nucleotide without fatally damaging their DNA and subsequent cell structure. Their physiology is… unique,” she finished. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Another mystery?” Chakotay asked. “During our date, Valerie Archer injected herself with a stabilizing compound,” Chakotay said. “I’m sure, if you analyze the serum, there’ll be something in it that can help you.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“We have already done so, Commander. The information is in my re—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Report. Of course,” Kathryn cut in. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I am confident that the Doctor and I will be able to <i>de</i>mystify the process eventually,” Seven answered.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Of course you will,” Kathryn said. “I have faith that you’ll figure it out.” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“You’ve used that word again: faith,” Seven said. “I do not understand how an educated, logical person with an understanding of scientific theory and fact can rely on something as equivocal and imprecise as <i>faith</i>.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Kathryn glanced around the mess, taking in the sight of her crew, their crew, finishing their meals and talking. Socializing together—Maquis and Starfleet, Human, Vulcan, Bolian, Bajoran combined—before they went on duty. Naomi had made her way to Mortimer Harron’s table and was talking to him. He frowned at her and said something, but Naomi was undeterred. She shook the ball, her head tilting to the side as she read the answer. Kathryn watched her shrug, then turn and finally head toward Tom, B’Elanna, and Harry’s table. </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Look around, Seven. What do you see?” </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Seven raised an eyebrow but humoured her captain. “I see <i>Voyager’s<i> crew, finishing their nutritional requirements before they begin their shifts.” </i></i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Kathryn tilted her head as she regarded her work-in-progress. “I see friendships blossoming, building on formerly shaky, but necessary,  foundations.” She nodded toward Tom, B’Elanna, and Harry’s table in time to catch the warm, indulgent smile that B’Elanna sent Tom as he shook the Magic 8 Ball and laughed at Harry’s dour expression when he read out the results. “Romances growing and deepening. I see Starfleet and Maquis,” she glanced at Chakotay, then nodded at Neelix, busy stirring something steaming in his oversized cooking pot, “former strangers and,” she gestured toward Seven herself, “former enemies, united toward a common goal. If the Vulcans had never made first contact with Earth, it’s unlikely we'd be here now. But knowing that there were other worlds out there, other people, drove us out of our solar system so we could meet them and learn about them. To forge a peace with them and create the Federation.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“Our desire to explore and learn is what drove my parents to a confrontation with the Borg,” she noted. “And if the Federation members could ‘forge’ a lasting peace, the Maquis would never have been created and <i>Voyager</i> would not have ended up stranded in the Delta Quadrant.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Kathryn smiled at Seven’s flat expression. “And if Earth had never made peace with the Klingon Empire, B’Elanna would likely not exist. My point, Seven, is that we’ve become one family, as intertwined as a string of DNA. We’re stronger for it. And I have faith that nothing can unravel us. Call it magic, if you like.” </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Seven regarded her, her expression neutral. “The Doctor is expecting me,” she said. “I have added an addendum to my report detailing my preliminary thoughts on a new nanoprobe weapon to target Species 8472. <i>I</i> have faith that our exploration of their bio-engineering technology will result in our constructing a better biological weapon to use against them. Should our peace not last.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Kathryn sighed, then nodded. “I didn’t expect anything less, Seven.” </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>The former Borg nodded at her and Chakotay, then turned and headed for the door. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“It’s prudent,” Chakotay said. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“Yes,” Kathryn agreed. She glanced toward Naomi, who had joined her bridge officers and had taken the vacant chair at their table. Harry shook the Magic 8 Ball and frowned, much to B’Elanna’s delight. “I just wish I weren’t so anxious to have that new weapon in my hands,” she confessed. “I wish… that all the species in our dimension, and Species 8472, really could forge a lasting peace.” She raised her hands and laced her fingers together, twisting them until they looked jumbled and braided. “That we all realized how interconnected we really are.” </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>The crew was starting to thin out as they left their tables and headed toward their duty stations. Harry had already left by the forward doors, on his way to the bridge, and Tom and B’Elanna were headed aft, Tom’s hand resting on her shoulder. He was in sickbay this morning, Kathryn remembered, while the Doctor and Seven were in the lab working on the Species 8472 problem. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Chakotay nodded. “It’s been almost a year since the Doctor made contact with Starfleet Command. Maybe the Dominion War is over. Maybe the good guys won and everyone is living in peace and harmony now.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>“Maybe,” Kathryn conceded. “But I won’t hold my breath. Unlike Species 8472, I need air to survive.”</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Chakotay smiled and stood. He held out his hand, palm up, and she slid hers into it and allowed him to pull her up out of her seat. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>***</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>End note: try your luck at www.magic-8ball.com</p>
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